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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 























Wheels Within Wheels 


CAROLYN WELLS 



By CAROLYN WELLS 


Wheels Within Wheels 
The Affair at Flower Acres 
The Vanishing of Betty Varian 
The Luminous Face 
The Come Back 
In the Onyx Lobby 
The Man Who Fell Through 
the Earth 

The Room with the Tassels 
Faulkner’s Folly 
The Bride of a Moment 
Doris of Dobb’s Ferry 
The Book of Humorous Verse 
Such Nonsense! An Anthology 


NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





WHEELS WITHIN 
WHEELS 

BY 

CAROLYN WELLS 

\\ 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 









? 'U 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS. II 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


OCT -1 ’23 



IN ALL GOOD FRIENDSHIP 
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO 


Doctor CHARLES GILMORE KERLEY 







» 













































































CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

Howlands. 

11 

II 

The Thunderstorm 

26 

III 

You Want My Father? . 

41 

IV 

A Curious Scar .... 

55 

V 

The Clause in the Will . 

69 

VI 

The Girl in the Doorway 

83 

VII 

“I Am Angela! ” .... 

97 

VIII 

The Mother Instinct 

. Ill 

IX 

The Coral Necklace 

. 125 

X 

The Bit of Glass 

. 139 

XI 

“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 

. 154 

XII 

The Harrison Story 

. 168 

XIII 

Not Sure!. 

. 182 

XIV 

Conrad Remembers 

. 196 

XV 

Utter Defeat .... 

. 210 

XVI 

Swift’s Ultimatum 

. 224 

XVII 

The Chemist’s Statement 

. 238 

XVIII 

On Record. 

. 252 











Wheels Within Wheels 







WHEELS WITHIN 
WHEELS 


CHAPTER I 

Howlands 

A MONG the most beautiful of the great country 
houses of America, and quite able to hold 
L its own against many of the stately homes of 
England, was Howlands, the estate of Ralph How¬ 
land of Normandale, Connecticut, and of New York 
City. 

The New England village was proud of its citi¬ 
zen, yet not over-appreciative, for your true New 
England village is aristocratic in and of itself and 
appraises with discernment the status of its inhabi¬ 
tants, rich and poor alike. 

But the Howlands were favorites in the com¬ 
munity, and had been for sixteen years, though few 
of the villagers had ever stepped foot across the 
threshold of the house. Perhaps it was sympathy 
that made the kindly feeling, perhaps pride of pos¬ 
session, but Normandale gloried in Howlands as in 
a treasure of its own. 


11 


12 Wheels Within Wheels 

On the outskirts of the little town yet within easy 
walking distance, the white house on its green hill¬ 
top could be seen from every West window in the 
village, and many glances from those windows were 
full of sympathy and pity even if tinged with curi¬ 
osity or envy. 

Of late years the summer stay of the Howlands 
had lengthened until it was nearly twice as long as 
their winter time in New York. And now it was 
October, and there was no sign of their return to 
the city. 

Nor was it surprising that they should wish to 
linger. The hills were a glory of flame-like trees, 
the valley roads were bordered with yellow golden- 
rod and red sumac, and clouds of tiny purple asters 
were just beginning to appear. Color everywhere, 
—a blare of color, as if in flaunting defiance to the 
gray days and white winter that must soon follow. 

Howlands was at its beautiful best. The big 
modern house was built on the truest and best 
colonial lines, its great semi-circular entrance por¬ 
tico upheld by four tall, splendid columns, white and 
dazzling in the sunlight. Green lawns rolled away 
from it and every side gave a view of picturesque 
landscape, flung across the hillsides, yet showing 
here and there little lakes, as clear and beautiful as 
only mountain lakes can be. 

Yet the house breathed tragedy. Built sixteen 
years ago, the first season spent there had brought 
terrible grief to Ralph Howland and his wife and 
the place had remained closed for several seasons 


Howlands 


13 


thereafter. But change of scene, foreign travel, all 
efforts at diversion had failed to obliterate the sor¬ 
row, and of later years the Howlands had returned, 
not in gayety and mirth, but reverently, as to a 
shrine. 

“I think, Mary,” Howland said, as he watched the 
setting sun turn the blazing maples into deeper, 
softer tints, “that we must go down to town a little 
earlier this year. I’ve some big deals to put over, 
and then,—once things are settled,—we can come 
back as early as you like in the spring and never go 
away again unless you choose.” 

“Yes, Ralph,” and Mary Howland, sitting on the 
balcony railing, looked indifferently at her husband. 

^Over forty, she had kept her youthful appearance, 
her youthful effects,—all but her youthful enthusi¬ 
asms. Indifference was the keynote of her whole 
being. 

She wore exquisite clothes, she had beautiful ap¬ 
pointments in her house, the details of her home 
were charming, yet, without being exactly listless, 
she was uninterested in everything, even including 
her husband. 

She loved him and there was strong sympathy and 
congeniality between the two, but any enthusiasm 
she might show was so palpably an effort, so ob¬ 
viously perfunctory, that Howland had ceased to 
expect or even want it, and she had ceased to dis¬ 
play it. 

They had occasional guests; they accepted and 
returned the village hospitalities, had house parties 


14 Wheels Within Wheels 

and larger social functions, but though Mary How¬ 
land was a perfect hostess, she greeted none with a 
real welcome. 

Nor was Howland much more cordial. He had 
men friends, there was mutual liking, but little true 
comradeship or joy of meeting. 

Yet he was a fine man. A few years short of 
fifty, his appearance was distinguished, without be¬ 
ing impressive. Tallish, thinnish, grayish, and 
sharpish-featured, he had been handsome and was 
still good-looking. His deep-set eyes were knowing 
and seemed to appraise instantly and truly anything 
they looked upon. Correct in manner and deport¬ 
ment, widely informed on most subjects, he seemed 
cultured without being aristocratic, and his assured 
poise gave the effect of being acquired rather than 
innate. 

At present there were but few guests at the house. 

One of these, Leonard Swift, strolled across the 
terrace, and sat himself down beside Mary on the 
balcony railing. 

“Going down soon, are you?” he asked, overhear¬ 
ing. “Sorry,—it will cut my visit here short.” 

“Stay after we go, if you like, Len,” Mary said; 
“I’ll leave enough servants to keep you comfort¬ 
able—” 

“No, thanks. I love the place with people about, 
but not solitude up here. Ld get the creeps.” 

“What are you talking about?” said Howland, in¬ 
dignantly. “This is no bogey place,—the house isn’t 
haunted.” 


Howlands 15 

“Awful lonesome, though, except with plenty of 
company.” 

“As you choose/’ said Mary indifferently. 

Swift was Howland’s cousin and the two men 
were not unlike. But Swift was twelve years 
younger, and black of hair and mustache, whereas 
the other showed a graying tendency. 

Sharp, dark eyes both men had, and a quick, alert 
manner, that was the direct result of their nervous 
energy. 

This had been modified in the case of the older 
man, but Leonard Swift was a live wire, and few 
things escaped or mystified his attention. He got 
on famously with Howland, but was never quite 
at ease with Mary. Indeed, few people were at ease 
with the sad-eyed, absent-minded woman. 

But a cheerful element in the house just now was 
the presence of a light-hearted, youngish couple with 
rubber-ball temperaments and irrepressible disposi¬ 
tions. 

Rob and Sally Peters were of that pleasant type 
who are bromidic enough to say they “never 
grew up,” and yet not stupid enough to have it 
true. 

Bob was stocky and red-faced, with an air of 
being determinedly well-groomed; for his intractable 
stiff hair and irrepressible fast-growing beard called 
for a strong will to keep them in order. Moreover, 
he couldn’t make his clothes behave. His coat would 
wrinkle, his shirt bosoms would crumple, and his ties 
would fetch crooked at times. But his merry wide 


16 Wheels Within Wheels 

smile and his kindly crinkling eye-corners betokened 
a generous viewpoint and a humorous soul. 

Sally had the round infantile face that comes to 
some women in happy middle life. 

She was complacent and self-satisfied, idly ready 
to listen to gossip, but too indolent to remember or 
repeat much of it. Her large light-blue eyes gath¬ 
ered up a great deal as they rolled tranquilly about, 
and her bedangled ears took in all details that inter¬ 
ested her and but few that did not. 

Her tastes ran to wearing semi-precious stones 
and drawing threads out of linen. 

But owing to the insistence of her more athleti¬ 
cally inclined husband, Sally trailed about the golf- 
links of the near-by country club day after day, 
unwilling but dutiful. 

To the trio on the verandah they now appeared, 
tired but happy. Bob happy, because he always 
was. Sally happy, because Bob was. 

“Good golf?” asked Howland, genially. 

“Great!” Sally returned. “And the best of it is, 
it’s over! I always say the best part of golf is the 
coming home after it.” 

“That’s the best part of anything, isn’t it?” asked 
Swift, but when he saw Mary’s suddenly agonized 
face, and her sad shake of the head, he regretted his 
unfortunate question. 

For Mary Howland’s broken home and broken 
life were carefully avoided, even in indirect refer¬ 
ence, by all who knew her. 

“We met the foolish Conrad on the way home,” 


Howlands 


17 

Sally put in quickly, with a kindly intent to change 
the subject. “It’s awful to laugh at the poor un¬ 
fortunate chap, but he is so funny!” 

“He is,” and Mary smiled. “He comes up here 
pretty often, and yesterday he came to where I was 
sitting, on the terrace, and he looked for all the 
world as a squirrel does, when warily approaching.” 

“That’s it, exactly,” exclaimed Sally. “He has 
just that funny little roguish look of a squirrel. As 
if he’d come ahead if all’s well, and scoot if it isn’t.” 

“I don’t think he’s funny at all,—or even inter¬ 
esting,” said Swift. “I can’t bear to see him. He’s 
—why, he’s demented!” 

“Oh, no, don’t call it that,” Howland said; “he’s 
touched,—if you like, he’s half-witted—” 

“No, he isn’t,” Peters interrupted. “If he had a 
little more brains he’d be half-witted, but as is, he’s 
a third-witted or even less.” 

“Well,” and Howland spoke indulgently, “he’s the 
Village Half-wit, so let it go at that. I’m told 
there’s always a village half-wit—” 

“Are there any village whole-wits,—that’s what 
I want to know,” said Bob Peters smiling. 

“There weren’t till you came,” said Howland. 

“Then now there are two,” and Sally chuckled her 
happy little laugh. 

“But you know, now,—that Conrad,” and Bob 
Peters looked serious, “he has, I think, a homicidal 
mania—” 

“Oh, no,” Howland smiled. “You’re way off. 
Conrad Stryker is half-witted, he is demented, if 


18 Wheels Within Wheels 

you like, but he’s no maniac. He hasn’t a vicious 
hair in his head, he hasn’t a criminal thought in his 
mind.” 

“On the contrary,” and Mary Howland spoke 
with a kindly light in her eyes, “he’s a gentle, af¬ 
fectionate nature. He’s always letting things out.” 

“Secrets?” and Sally looked interested. 

“No, not that,” and Mary really smiled now, “but, 
I mean, if he sees a chance to free a small animal 
from a snare or trap, he lets it out. Why, they say, 
he opens his mother’s mousetraps and lets the crea¬ 
tures free!” 

“Oh, heavens! talk about something else,” and 
Sally shuddered. “I’m not afraid of idiots, even 
those with homicidal mania, but I am of mice!” 

“But he isn’t an idiot,” Howland persisted. “I’ve 
no especial interest in Conrad Stryker, but I do be¬ 
lieve in justice. He is a simple-minded, harmless 
boy—” 

“Boy!” broke in Leonard Swift, “he’s thirty if 
he’s a day!” 

“I don’t mean a boy in years, but in mentality. 
His is a case of arrested development, or whatever 
the doctors call it, and though his brains are weak 
and undeveloped, they are there and they are not 
distorted, as in the case of a real maniac.” 

“Mr. Howland,” said a soft voice from the house 
door, and most of them looked up to see a vision of 
beauty framed in the doorway. 

A vision of beauty is usually a hyperbolic term, 
but in this instance it was pretty nearly true. 


Howlands 


19 


A' girl, with an expression half-apologetic, half- 
dictatorial, whose big gray eyes took in everybody 
present, but who only looked at Howland. She was 
not petite, and though not overly plump was well 
rounded and her flesh had a look of wholesome 
soundness. 

And this wholesome soundness was very much in 
evidence, for Miss Mills, Howland’s stenographer, 
wore her skirts very short, notwithstanding the news 
from Paris of descending hem lines. Also the col¬ 
larless neck of her one-piece frock was as low as it 
could conveniently be, and her sleeves were chopped 
off in a straight line just below her rounded shoul¬ 
ders. 

Her frock was without trimming, save for a bind¬ 
ing or piping of a contrasting color, and a nar¬ 
row belt defined her sound and wholesome waist¬ 
line. 

The short one-piece disclosed a bewildering length 
of silken hose, enclosing the sound and wholesome 
legs of Miss Mills, and it goes without saying that 
her shoes were impeccable. 

The face, which one came to, after a rapturous 
and comprehensive glance at the rest of her whole¬ 
some soundness was oval and cream-colored, with 
tempestuous gray eyes that turned up at you ap¬ 
pealingly and a mouth that quivered slightly if you 
were unsympathetic. 

But few were unsympathetic with or to Miss 
Mills. 

Swift had seen her before and so was not bowled 


20 Wheels Within Wheels 

over by the vision, but it was a new one on the 
Peterses and they gasped. 

“What is it ?” asked Howland, shortly. 

“The telephone, Mr. Howland.” 

“Necessary ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Without further word, Ralph Howland rose and 
went into the house, following in the wake of his 
stenographer. 

“A museum piece,” commented Peters, and Mary 
Howland smiled. 

“Might as well be,” she said, “for all the human¬ 
ity or personality she possesses. Miss Mills is a 
beauty, but also she is a perfect worker. Ralph 
couldn’t get along without her.” 

“I couldn’t either,” rhapsodized Peters, “that is, if 
I could get along with her.” 

“Get along with you” and his wife smiled at him 
comfortably. “Come on, now, it’s time to dress for 
dinner. Any guests, Mary?” 

“A few. None of any especial interest. Wear 
some of your beaded things.” 

“I don’t want to go just yet,” begged Peters. 
“I’ve got something to talk over with Ralph.” 

“Talk it over with him after dinner,” dictated his 
wife. “You’ll be late if you wait now. Won’t he, 
Mary?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Go on, Bob. You’re 
an awfully slow dresser.” 

The Peterses departed and Swift came over and 
took a chair nearer his hostess. 


Howlands 21 

“Mary,” he said, “don’t let Ralph go into that 
fool scheme with Peters. It’s a wild cat game, and 
not only will Ralph lose a lot of money, but he may 
get himself into more serious trouble.” 

“What is it, Len? I don’t know anything about 
it.” 

“That’s why I’m telling you. Never mind de¬ 
tails, it’s called the Righto mine,—but it’s all wrong. 
I know,—oh, Mary, you can’t understand these 
things, but please do as I advise—” 

“Just what are you advising?” 

“Only that you persuade Ralph,—beg him, coax 
him, manage him any way you like,—but make him 
keep out of it.” 

“If it’s wrong in any way, he’ll keep out of it 
himself.” 

“But he doesn’t know it’s wrong,—and Peters is 
a cajoling sort. He’ll wind Ralph round his 
finger—” 

“Does Bob know it’s wrong?” 

“I’m not sure,” and Swift looked perplexed. 
“I’d hate to think he did and yet I don’t see how 
he can help it. But in either case, we want to keep 
Ralph out of it.” 

“Len,” and his hostess looked at him amusedly, 
“what has come over you ? Since when have you,— 
or have I, become Ralph’s keeper? It’s rather funny 
to think of our advising that man 1” 

“I know it, and yet, Mary, such times come to the 
best and cleverest of men. Just because Ralph is so 
wise and so experienced, just because he is so 


22 Wheels Within Wheels 

sophisticated and so sure of himself, it makes it all 
the easier for him to accept the unproved word of 
a friend like Peters and go into the thing without 
investigation.” 

"‘Have you investigated it ?” 

“Enough to know that it’s a fake,—a deliberate 
fraud,—and if Ralph even so much as touches it, 
he’ll scorch his reputation badly!” 

“Why don’t you tell Ralph this yourself?” 

“I did, but he thinks I know nothing of business 
matters. He thinks, compared to himself and 
Peters, I’m a babe in arms! Maybe I am, but I see 
farther through this millstone than they do! Mary, 
you must—” 

“Must what?” and Howland reappeared, a sudden 
light in his eyes as he overheard Swift’s words. 

“Why, Ralph,” and Mary turned to him, “Len 
wants me to urge you not to have anything to do 
with that mine proposition of—” 

“No, that wasn’t it!” and Howland looked quietly 
incredulous. “That wasn’t the subject on which 
Swift was speaking to you so earnestly,—it couldn’t 
have been—” 

“But it was,” reiterated Mary, “wasn’t it, Len?” 

“I don’t understand you, Ralph,” Swift spoke de¬ 
liberately and scornfully. “And I disdain to answer 
your question. Your wife made an assertion. You 
should be ashamed to ask for its corroboration.” 

Howland smiled coldly. 

“That high and mighty air doesn’t suit you, Len. 


Howlands 23 

But you’re right. Mary, why do you discuss my 
business affairs with Leonard?” 

“It wasn’t a discussion, exactly,” Mary Howland 
said wearily; “Len asked me to urge you—” 

“I know, you said that before. But why bring up 
the subject at all, in my absence?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, Ralph!” Mary spoke almost 
pettishly. “We just referred to it by chance. Don’t 
be disagreeable about it.” 

Howland was silent a moment, and then said, “All 
right, dear, I won’t. But Leonard, you and I will 
talk over the matter this evening. Be in my library 
at eleven, will you ?” 

“Of course I will. Glad to. I tell you, Ralph —” 

“Very well, but tell me then,—don’t tell me now.” 

Howland went away again, and the two were 
rather silent. 

“He’s a strange guy,” Swift said at last. “Doesn’t 
he annoy you sometimes, Mary?” 

“Nothing annoys me,—just as nothing rejoices 
me.” 

“No, I suppose not. But I do wish you’d try to 
rouse yourself from that attitude,—that somewhat 
determined pessimism of yours—” 

“Pessimism! I rather think that if you—” 

“Yes, I know,—I know. But, when everybody 
is trying to help you, when everybody is doing all 
that’s possible for your good, for your happiness, I 
do think you might try—just try, you know, to do 
a little for yourself.” 


24 Wheels Within Wheels 

“You’re right, Len,—and I know it. But,—oh, 
I can’t! Sally tries to brighten me up and cheer 
me, until I nearly go frantic. But it doesn’t do a 
bit of good,—I think it makes me worse.” 

“Oh, well, if you persist in that frame of mind, 
I dare say nothing can help you. But why, why, 
Mary, can’t you make a big, splendid effort and con¬ 
quer it all—” 

“Conquer what ?” her eyes blazed at him. “Mem¬ 
ory?” 

“No, no, of course not. But fnorbidity, melan¬ 
choly, despair. Put up a fight—” 

“Oh, hush, Len, I don’t want to fight. You think, 
I suppose, you’re saying something original, some¬ 
thing novel. I’ve had that propaganda dinned into 
my ears by all sorts and conditions of people for 
sixteen years.” 

“Magee?” 

“Yes, of course by Mr. Magee, and by the 
rector, and by the doctor and by Nurse Lane, and 
even by Miss Mills.” 

“Good Lord, what does she say to you?” 

“Oh, she’s no simpleton, you know. In fact, she 
gives me about the best advice of any one. Just to 
go outdoors a lot, and ride, and golf, and read, and 
mix with people,—just general good advice. I’ve 
even tried it,—but it does no good. To-night, I’m 
more than usually unstrung, because there’s a 
thunderstorm coming up.” 

“A thunderstorm! In October?” 


Howlands 25 

“Yes; such things aren’t unknown. Anyway, 
there’s one coming. You’ll see.” 

“Rheumatic twinges?” 

Mary smiled. “No, silly, not that. But nervous 
tremors and jumpy heart action.” 


CHAPTER II 


The Thunderstorm 



S one entered the wide and beautiful hall of 


Howlands, on the right was the living-room 


^ and on the left was the library, in which the 
master of the house spent most of his time. Back 
of the library was a billiard room and back of that 
the large and formal drawing-room. 

On the other side, that is, back of the living-room, 
were the dining-room and kitchens. 

Simple of plan, the rooms were so large and 
spacious and so well proportioned that there was 
an effect of long vistas, and the great staircase which 
rose from the center of the hall and branched to 
either side was an architectural triumph in itself. 

On the second floor, the bedrooms were ample 
and luxurious. The Howlands’ own suite was over 
the living-room, while across the hall, above the 
library, were guest rooms now occupied by the 
Peterses. 

Back of these was Leonard Swift’s room, and 
behind that the pretty room of Miss Mills. 

Next back of the Howlands’ rooms was the room 
of Austin Magee, Ralph Howland’s secretary, and 
back of this, the room of Nurse Lane, who though 
classed among the servants was a most important 


26 


The Thunderstorm 27 

member of the household,—indeed, almost a mem¬ 
ber of the family. 

Magee was dressing for dinner and was thinking 
about the mining scheme in which Rob Peters was so 
determined to interest Howland. 

The secretary had his employer’s interests deeply 
at heart, and though he never had presumed to 
advise, he was carefully considering whether it 
was not his duty to do so in this case. 

Austin Magee had what is called a round head, 
but it was also a long head and a level head. 

Moreover, it was well set and well carried on 
his shoulders, for the man, though not specially well 
born, had a poise that a statesman might envy. His 
very walk across a room gave an impression of dig¬ 
nity and importance, yet he was in no way bump¬ 
tious or assertive and was absolutely devoid of any 
appearance of self-consciousness. 

His self-respect and self-reliance were plainly 
written on his strong, unhandsome face, and deter¬ 
mination was, quite evidently, his besetting sin or 
his chief virtue, according to the object of his will. 

His industry was tireless, his will power in¬ 
domitable and his energy inexhaustible; and though 
at times a daredevil spirit was manifest, yet when 
Magee smiled he had the effect of a lovable scamp. 

Though he had little originality or creative abil¬ 
ity he was adaptable and quick-witted, and through 
these traits he had achieved much. 

Indeed, so adaptable was he to influence or atmos¬ 
phere that he was almost chameleonic. He took 


28 Wheels Within Wheels 

color from his surroundings or his associations to 
such an extent that he seemed able to merge into 
any condition of life without effort, and also with¬ 
out detriment to his own imperturbable poise and 
his individual calm. 

Yet he was saved from being a stone image by 
his sense of humor. A sudden radiant smile would 
light up his face at hearing a really happy quip or a 
quaint conceit, and his imagination was boundless 
when he gave it rein. 

At thirty, Magee had achieved a position that 
pleased him. He was private secretary and general 
manager to Ralph Howland, a magnate of wide in¬ 
terests and various enterprises. 

Or rather, Howland had been actively engaged 
in high finance, but now, nearly fifty, he was retir¬ 
ing from business life and was winding up and dis¬ 
posing of many matters with a view to a leisurely 
old age. 

Though possessed of a city home, a forest camp 
and a seashore place, Ralph Howland liked best of 
all his New England country estate at Normandale 
and enjoyed most his summer months when spent 
there. 

Yet the place breathed tragedy. 

Built sixteen years ago, the first summer they 
lived there had brought terrible grief to Ralph and 
Mary Howland. 

For in that first season, in the first happiness of 
their new home, an epidemic of sleeping sickness 


The Thunderstorm 29 

had claimed their only child, the little five-year-old 
Angela. 

Change of scene, foreign travel, amusements of 
all sorts, failed to divert the distracted mother or 
cheer the saddened father. 

And though for many years the Normandale 
place remained closed and empty, of late, Mary 
Howland had found that, after all, she came nearer 
to a quiet content there than at any other of their 
homes. 

Save for her apathy and indifference, Mary 
Howland was a most attractive woman. Talented, 
cultured, of quick perceptions, she was fitted to 
grace her position as chatelaine of the great house. 
But entertaining bored her, and much of the time 
the family were alone. 

Leonard Swift was looked upon as one of them¬ 
selves, and both Magee and Edith Mills were also 
part of the family circle. 

Nurse Amy Lane had been the nurse of baby 
Angela, and had remained with Mary ever since the 
loss of the child. Solicitous for the health and 
comfort of her mistress, Lane had been a bit spoiled 
and was, of late, growing domineering and dicta¬ 
torial, as is the way with old family servants. 

But, on the whole, her presence was valuable, even 
necessary to Mary's well-being, and though disliked 
by the other servants, Lane was also feared and 
respected. 

The sudden death of the child, during the excite- 


30 Wheels Within Wheels 

ment and disaster of the fearful epidemic had been 
tragic in many ways. 

There had been no funeral, and the tiny casket 
had been taken away from the house during a vio¬ 
lent and terrifying thunderstorm. 

This incident had so affected the nerves of the 
stricken mother, that ever since, she had been espe¬ 
cially sensitive to weather conditions, and knew in¬ 
stinctively of the approach of the dreaded electric 
storms. 

And now, even in October, she was right as to 
the coming of one. 

Dressing for dinner, she continually and appre¬ 
hensively glanced from her windows to watch the 
heavens. 

Ralph Howland, through long experience, knew 
the futility of trying to soothe her fears, and the 
only thing to do was to have Nurse Lane in watch¬ 
ful readiness to care for her mistress when the 
storm broke. 

But it held off and there were only distant rum¬ 
blings and occasional faint flashes of lightning. 

Mary, assisted by Etta, her maid, was getting 
into an evening gown of soft white that showed a 
bit of silver lace here and there. 

A long sash end of silver ribbon hung at, one 
side, and her silver slippers tapped impatiently as 
she was being hooked up. 

“There now,” admonished Lane, “don’t you begin 
tapping your foot, Mrs. Howland. You’ll get all 
feezed up if you don’t hold on to yourself.” 


The Thunderstorm 31 

“She won’t, if you’ll only let her alone,” Etta 
flashed back. 

There was constant war between these two, for 
each scorned the other and each felt the other’s 
presence unnecessary. 

Etta, trim, smart and capable, looked disdainfully 
at Amy Lane, whose red face and tawny gray hair 
were as unattractive as her blunt speech was annoy¬ 
ing. 

Yet both were devoted to Mary, and this kept both 
in attendance and kept their mutual antagonism 
fairly well under subjection. 

For Mary Howland permitted no bickering in her 
presence. When by themselves the two satellites 
might wage battles royal, but when with their mis¬ 
tress at least outward peace was enjoined. 

Sometimes an irrepressible flaunt broke forth, but 
a mere glance from Mary Howland prevented the 
obvious retort. 

So now, Nurse Lane gave Etta only an indignant 
look and held her tongue. 

She was a gaunt, ungraceful woman, with promi¬ 
nent elbows and knees, and had a bearing like a 
grenadier. 

Yet every gesture or motion showed capability 
and efficiency and though aggressive of manner and 
unprepossessing of face, she yet inspired confidence 
and gained from most a begrudged, unwilling ad¬ 
miration. 

Her face, of the equine type, was framed in stray¬ 
ing wisps of yellowish gray hair, and what are 


32 Wheels Within Wheels 

known as scolding locks were always escaping from 
the invisible hairpins that visibly failed to confine 
them. 

Her eyes were faded and colorless, with sandy 
brows and lashes, yet even this effect of weakness 
was offset by her large nose and firm, hard mouth. 
A' martinet, a virago, she looked,—and was,—but 
toward her idolized mistress she was all gentleness 
and affection. 

“There, there, dearie,” she would say, and taking 
Mary in her arms would wipe her tearful eyes as 
she would those of a child. 

“Going to put it over, Bob ?” Sally Peters asked, 
as she powdered her little round nose, and then pro¬ 
ceeded to powder her expanse of white chest pre¬ 
paratory to decking it with a complicated arrange¬ 
ment of aquamarines chained together by tiny metal 
links. 

“Doubtful,” responded her husband, retying an 
already overtied tie. “Yet it all depends. I’m to 
see him to-night, after the dinner is over and if he’s 
in genial mood, I do think I can persuade him. Oh, 
I must persuade him,—or entice him,—or,—force 
him! Why, Sally, he’s got to do it,—I tell you, 
he’s got to! I can't lose this opportunity,—it means 
everything,—everything!” 

“Of course it does, dear. He’ll do it,—I’m sure. 
How much do you want him to put in—” 

“That isn’t it,—not entirely. I want him to back 
it,—to sanction it,—hang it all, why, I want him to 
buy it,—to buy the mine outright,—and then—” 


The Thunderstorm 33 

“I believe after all, I’ll wear my amethysts,” and 
Sally held up another handful of glitter from her 
roomy jewel case. “What do you think, Bob?” 

“I think you’re heavenly in anything,—but why 
string the junk on, anyway? Why not a simple 
string of pearls, like Mary wears?” 

“Sell the mine to Ralph, and buy me such a string, 
and you’ll come out about even,” said Sally, smiling 
at him. 

“Oh, I don’t mean real pearls—” 

“And I don’t want any other kind. Can I do any¬ 
thing in the business?” 

“No; unless you drop a hint to Mary that—” 

“That wouldn’t do any good. A hint to Austin 
Magee might.” 

“Dubious. Sit next him at table, though, can’t 
you, and then, if there’s a good chance just remark 
on the surety of the scheme.” 

“Austin Magee is pretty hard-headed—” 

“But not hard-hearted,—and,—you’re a very 
pretty woman, my dear.” 

“To you, my best beloved,—but not to the world 
at large,” and Sally smiled. 

“Then the world is blind,” and her husband spoke 
with a sincere conviction that delighted his wife. 

But Austin Magee, carefully and skillfully tying 
his own tie at that moment, was about as far from 
being influenced by Sally Peters’ charm as a granite 
obelisk would be. 

His notion of the mining scheme was to let it 
alone, quietly, if possible,—insistently, if necessary. 


34 Wheels Within Wheels 

Yet he feared that Howland would be drawn 
into it. 

A' smaller deal Magee would have ignored, but 
this was enormous; it might wreck Howland’s whole 
fortune. Something must be done, and at risk of 
incurring his employer’s deep displeasure, Magee de¬ 
cided he must interfere. 

Many times had Ralph Howland quoted to his 
secretary a favorite line, “Interference is the very 
hind hoof of the devil,” and Magee had taken the 
hint and up to now had never given unasked advice 
or suggested any change of plan or procedure. 

But now,—this fool mine! It would be too 
dreadful if a great man like Howland should fall 
for such a questionable enterprise! Yet, of late, 
Magee had realized that Ralph Howland’s judgment 
was not quite what it had been. A few times and 
in minor matters, the secretary had been amazed at 
his superior’s decisions. 

That was why he feared for the result of the con¬ 
ference with Peters on the mine matter. 

Peters was a persuasive talker, was a long-time 
friend of Howland’s, was, though honest, so far 
as Magee knew, not of flawless impeccability in his 
business standards. 

Moreover, there was that other matter opening 
up. That great matter, which, if it came about 
would revolutionize life at Howlands, and would 
need and want all the wealth Ralph Howland had 
amassed. No, that great fortune, that pile of riches 


The Thunderstorm 35 

must not be even jeopardized just at this critical 
moment! 

Shaking his head obstinately, Magee went down¬ 
stairs and joined the others in the drawing-room. 

Edith Mills, that invaluable member of the house¬ 
hold, stood near Mary helping her receive and 
entertain the dinner guests. 

Though only stenographer to Ralph Howland, 
Miss Mills also acted as his wife’s social secretary, 
and she was both clever and useful in that capacity. 
Too, she was by way of being assistant hostess, and 
Mary had grown to depend on her for moral 
strength and support whenever she entertained. 

In a small, plain frock of jade green chiffon, Miss 
Mills’ pale blonde beauty showed at its best. Her 
cheeks were faintly pink, and her big gray eyes had 
a cordial look of greeting, though her manner was 
subordinate, and she in no way usurped any promi¬ 
nence. 

As usual, her gown was low, short and scant. 
Untrimmed, and with no decoration of flowers or 
jewels, this left Miss Mills’ wholesome soundness 
very much in evidence. But her air was unself¬ 
conscious, her manner simple and charming, and 
one would be over-meticulous to cavil at the details 
of her costume. 

Magee made his way straight to the side of Edith 
Mills and, standing close, said in a low voice: 

“Peters is dangerous. He’s out for blood, and 
he’s going to tackle the old man to-night.” 


36 Wheels Within Wheels 

“What can I do?” and though the girl's tone was 
a bit pert, she looked earnestly at Magee. 

“Not much,—but you can do this. Sit next 
Peters at dinner and sound him. Just get all the 
information you can,—not about the mine, but gen¬ 
eral information of the man,—his habits, doings of 
late,—and—” 

“I know,” and the ash-blonde head nodded. “Go 
away now,—they’ll notice you,—don’t come near me 
again.” 

She turned away from him and resumed her 
pretty tasks of entertainment. 

“How attractive that girl is,” somebody remarked 
to Sally Peters. “Too attractive to be a man’s secre¬ 
tary, I should say!” 

“Oh, no,” Sally explained, “she’s a dear, and 
Mrs. Howland is devoted to her. Sometimes I wish 
she would adopt Edith and let her take the place 
of the daughter she lost.” 

“What an idea!” and the guest stared. 

“Not at all a bad one,” Sally returned; “Edith 
Mills is a fine girl, and a household favorite. She 
isn’t secretary to Mr. Howland,—Mr. Magee is 
that,—but she is stenographer when needed, and 
she helps Mary socially at other times.” 

“She’s a vamp,—that’s what she is!” and the 
speaker glared at the short and narrow jade green 
chiffon. 

“Oh, well, who isn’t these days?” and Sally’s 
merry laugh rang out. “I’d like to be,—if I were 
a bit more slender. Come, now, Mrs. Ogilvy, don’t 


The Thunderstorm 37 

be over-critical of youth and beauty. All young 
people nowadays are full of the vamp complex,— 
and to frown on it stamps one a bit old-fashioned. ,, 

“I’d rather be old-fashioned, then, than to have 
that flibbertigibbet in my house!” 

“You’re lucky not to have to have her, then. Oh, 
my heavens and earth!” 

The sudden exclamation, not entirely inappro¬ 
priate, was called forth by a terrific clap of thunder, 
with an almost simultaneous lightning flash that 
was evident even in the electric-lighted room. 

Edith Mills, close at Mary’s side, slipped an arm 
round the trembling woman, while Etta hovered in 
a doorway, and Nurse Lane’s anxious face peeped 
over her shoulder. 

But Mary Howland held herself well in hand and 
as the bolt was not repeated she summoned all her 
will power and led the way to the dining-room. 

The serene smiles and gay banter of those at the 
table gave no evidence of the deep and perturbing 
thoughts beneath the urbane exterior of many. 

Leonard Swift, himself of a reputation for re¬ 
partee, made good at it, while his quick eyes and 
good ears took in all that was possible of anything 
said by his cousin or Rob Peters. 

Magee watched everybody, without being no¬ 
ticed; but Edith Mills, who was possessed of truly 
abnormal hearing, listened adroitly to every one, 
and stored up. several important bits of knowledge 
voiced by those at the far end of the board. 

When at last the whole affair was over, Sally 


38 


Wheels Within Wheels 


Peters, in whose honor it had all been given, de¬ 
clared it had been a lovely party, but she was dead 
tired and was going straight to bed. 

Without saying anything at all, Rob Peters made 
for the library,—where he was joined by Ralph 
Howland. 

These two held confab, until Magee, in the bil¬ 
liard room next adjoining, overheard parts of the 
conversation, and unable to stand it longer, walked 
into the library. 

“This is a private session, Mr. Magee,” Peters 
said. 

A quick glance at Howland made Austin Magee 
drop into a chair, with the easy remark, “All right, 
Mr. Peters, go ahead with it.” 

Instead of which, Rob Peters rose, and with a 
muttered word about coming back later, went angrily 
from the room. 

The two men looked at each other. 

“I’ve had news,” said Magee, glancing about, 
warily. “I can’t go into details to-night,—but there 
is a hope—” 

“Lord, man, there’s long been a hope,—can’t you 
say more than that?” 

“Not to-night, Mr. Howland; and, besides, I want 
to speak to you now about this mine matter.” 

Ralph Howland stared at his secretary as if he 
had voiced some terrible treason. 

Then he said, coldly, “Magee, I have not asked 
you to do that.” 

“I know it, Mr. Howland, but—” 


The Thunderstorm 


39 


“You know it,—then you have nothing to say. 
I thought you must have mistakenly imagined I 
wished you to discuss it with me” 

“I did not, nor do I wish to discuss it,—but I do 
want to warn you—” 

“You warn me! Austin, have you taken leave of 
your senses? You never spoke like that before! I 
will overlook it this time,—but not a second!” 

“There will be no second,” and very quietly Magee 
rose and walked toward the door. 

“Wait, Magee, a moment. What about the—the 
other matter?” 

The secretary hesitated a moment, for he was 
angry beyond all bounds. But an instant of reflec¬ 
tion made him turn and sit down again. 

Drawing a memorandum book from his desk 
near-by, he began a low-toned conversation which 
was steadily and continuously carried on by the two 
men for a quarter of an hour or more. 

Then Leonard Swift strolled in from the billiard 
room. 

“I want to know about this,” he said; “I over¬ 
heard a part, and I think I should be told all.” 

“Tell him, Mr. Howland,” and Magee got up sud¬ 
denly, and this time left the room and went straight 
upstairs to his own room. 

At the top of the stairs he met Rob Peters. 

“Howland at leisure?” he asked; “I’d like a few 
words with him.” 

“Mr. Swift is with Mr. Howland,” Magee re¬ 
turned, a trifle curtly, and passed on. 


40 Wheels Within Wheels 

It was not long after this that the thunder, which 
had subsided to mere rumblings, began to grow 
louder. Another storm, doubtless, following the 
earlier disturbance. 

Mary Howland, in kimono and slippers, came 
from her room, with intent of seeking her husband’s 
presence, but Edith Mills, coming out quickly, in¬ 
tercepted her in the hall. 

“Come into my room, dear,” she said. 

“No,” said Mary, “I want Ralph,” and she went 
on downstairs. 


CHAPTER III 

You Want My Father? 

N EXT morning the sun rose clear, and the 
October landscape was as gorgeous and 
beautiful as if it had not been whipped and 
torn by the electric storm of the night before. 

The few servants earliest on duty were about and 
one of them opened a back kitchen door in response 
to a knock thereon. 

Conrad Stryker, the half-wit, stood there. He 
was a strange looking personage. A big, strong 
man of about thirty, physically well built, but with 
a pale, vacant face and staring blue eyes, that rolled 
from side to side as if worked by inanimate mechan¬ 
ism. His head was wide across the top,—anything 
going in at one ear and out at the other would have 
farther to travel than in most cases,—but it nar¬ 
rowed to a point at the chin,—kite-shaped rather 
than coffin-shaped. His large hands were nervously 
restless, his fingers incessantly moving, and he spoke 
earnestly but incoherently. 

“Mr. Howland is dead,” he said, turning round 
slowly, then suddenly turning back. “You want 
my father? I say—you want my father?” 

“Go along home, Conrad,” said Charles, who was 
the second man of the Howland house, and who was 
41 


42 Wheels Within Wheels 

a good-natured sort, and sorry for the idiot. “What 
are you doing out so early in the morning? Run 
home now and your granny will give you your 
breakfast.” 

“Yes,—but Mr. Howland is dead.” 

“No, he isn’t. Good-by, Conrad, go home now.” 

“Wait, wait!” the fellow cried, as the door was 
slowly closed against him. “I tell you he is dead— 
dead. You must have my father,—you must! you 
must!” 

Conrad’s father was the village undertaker, a re¬ 
spected citizen of Normandale, who had carried on 
his business for many years. The tragedy of his 
idiot son had saddened his life, and the harmless 
half-wit was the protege of the whole community. 

For old John Stryker had performed his services 
for every family in the village, more than once in 
most of them, and his gentle demeanor and unob¬ 
trusive sympathy had endeared him to all. 

Charles paused a moment, the door ajar, and 
looked at Conrad. He knew the poor unfortunate 
well, for he was often about the premises, and he 
saw that the vacant blue eyes were steady, and the 
nodding head positive. 

“Why do you say that?” he asked, curiously. 
“Mr. Howland is in bed and probably asleep.” 

“No, no, no! he is not! he is not!” the voice rose 
to a shriek. “He is dead—in his room—his big 
room—by his desk—come, I will show you.” 

Conrad’s strong hand grasped Charles’ arm, and 
half unwillingly, half fearful, he let himself be led 


You Want My Father? 43 

along by the idiot, who strode with him around the 
house to the great front verandah. 

Up the steps they went, and, pausing at the open 
window, Conrad pointed through it. 

Trembling, Charles looked in and saw his master, 
his head fallen sideways on his desk, his body re¬ 
laxed and arms hanging down. He might be asleep 
in that position, but he surely had all the effect of a 
lifeless man. 

Charles turned to stare at Conrad. 

“Dead!” the half-wit crooned softly. “All dead, 
—dead—dead—” he chanted the word. 

“Oh, shut up!” cried Charles, his nerves giving 
way. “Stop that infernal noise! What does it 
mean? I daren’t go in—” 

He turned and ran back down the steps and 
around to the kitchens again. 

Rushing in, he went at once to find nis superior, 
Martin the butler. 

That important personage was just coming down 
the servants’ stairway. 

“Mr. Howland is in the library—” Charles be¬ 
gan, and his wild-eyed, agonized expression startled 
even the calm of the imperturbable Martin. 

“Well?” he asked. “What of it?” 

“Come!” and beckoning the butler, Charles went 
toward the front hall. 

The door of the library was closed, and to the 
amazement of Martin his subordinate unceremoni¬ 
ously opened it. 

Then both men stood still in horror. Viewed 


44 Wheels Within Wheels 

from that side, it was plain to be seen that Ralph 
Howland was indeed dead. 

No second glance at the staring eyes, the white 
face, the rigid position, was necessary to drive home 
the truth. 

And beyond the huddled form, outside the open 
front window, they saw the idiot boy, his mouth 
open and his round blue eyes gazing at them. 

“You want my father?” he repeated. 

* “No!” cried Charles, in utter exasperation at his 
persistence. “When we do, we’ll send for him. 
You go home.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Martin, trying to pull him¬ 
self together. “What are you doing here, Con¬ 
rad ?” 

“He was wandering about when I came down,” 
said Charles. “Send him home. What must we 
do, Martin?” 

“Go for Mr. Magee,” the butler ordered. “Don’t 
tell any one else, until he says so. He’s in charge—” 

“Mr. Swift—” Charles suggested. 

“No; get Mr. Magee first.” 

So Charles went quickly upstairs and tapped at 
the secretary’s door. 

“Well?” was the response, as Magee opened the 
door. 

“Please come down to the library, sir,” Charles 
said; “don’t wait to dress,—put on a bathrobe—” 

But quick-witted Austin Magee had already 
sensed an emergency and had swiftly got himself 
into most of his clothes. 


You Want My Father? 45 

Collar and tie were omitted, but as he was on his 
way down the stair he was pulling on his coat. 

He had wasted no time on questions and reached 
the library door to see the butler bending over the 
body of his dead master. 

“Don’t touch him, Martin,” he cried sharply. 
“What has happened?” 

“He’s dead, sir,” said Martin, solemnly. 

“Dead, dead,” chanted Conrad, from the window. 
“You want my father?” 

“He can’t be dead!” said Magee, closely scanning 
the white face; and then, as he felt of the still wrist 
and the cold flesh, he added, “but he is!” 

“Yes, sir,” and Martin bowed his head. 

For a moment Magee stood staring,—unseeing,— 
but thinking quickly. 

Then he said, “Charles, go and get Mr. Swift. 
Tell him to hurry down. And Martin, you go about 
your work. Serve breakfast as usual. You must 
tell the other servants, I suppose, but don’t allow 
any noisy excitement or hysterics. We have Mrs. 
Howland to consider first of all. Don’t let her be 
told of this by a servant.” 

“Very good, sir,” and Martin disappeared. 

Alone with the lifeless body of his employer, 
Magee gave it no glance, but with swift, efficient 
movements, went straight to the safe, opened it, 
and rapidly selecting various papers and bundles of 
papers, transferred them to his own desk, which he 
closed and locked. 

He stood in thought a moment, then, listening for 


46 


Wheels Within Wheels 


footsteps on the stairs and hearing none, he opened 
a drawer in Ralph Howland’s desk. The position 
of the dead body made this difficult, but Magee 
managed it, and extracting more papers therefrom, 
put those also in his own desk and again locked it. 

When Swift entered, the secretary stood, with 
folded arms, gazing at his one-time employer. 

Leonard Swift, with tousled hair, dressing-gown 
over his pajamas and shuffling bath slippers, stopped 
short as he entered the room. 

“My God!” he exclaimed, “he—he isn’t—” 

“Yes, he’s dead,” and Magee stood without mov¬ 
ing. 

“What—what from? Heart disease?” 

“How do I know ? He had no heart disease that 
I ever heard of.” 

“But what else could it be? He wasn’t— 
wasn’t—” Swift’s teeth chattered and he could not 
bring out the dreaded word. 

“Murdered,” said Magee, coldly. “I don’t see any 
sign of it, but I think we must call a doctor at 
once.” 

“Yes,—yes,—of course. You do it, will you, 
Magee? I—I must dress.” 

“Yes,—but, wait a minute, Swift. I’ll call the 
doctor,—and he’ll know what to do,—but what 
about Mrs. Howland ? Who will tell her ?” 

Swift considered. 

“I can’t,” he said, at last. “Oh, I couldn’t do it. 
Get,—why, get Mrs. Peters to tell her. It’s a 
woman’s job, seems to me.” 


You Want My Father? 47 

“Either Mrs. Peters or Nurse Lane,” Magee said; 
“both of them, I should say. Go on up, Swift, and 
dress yourself. I’ll send somebody for Amy Lane.” 

There was time enough to move slowly, Magee 
reflected. 

Since Mary Howland didn’t already know of the 
tragedy, it was probable that she would not be 
anxious for an hour or so, at least. 

If awake, doubtless she thought her husband in 
his own room; if asleep, she was secure for the 
moment. 

So Magee sent a message to Nurse Lane to come 
to him in the living-room as soon as she could do 
so. 

Then he closed the library windows, and going 
out, closed the door. 

To Conrad, still on the verandah, he issued curt 
orders to go home, which the half-wit obeyed no 
more than he had his similar previous ones. 

“Has something happened?” asked Amy Lane, 
as, fully dressed and composed of manner, she came 
to Magee. 

“Yes; Mr. Howland is dead.” 

“Oh, my poor lamb!” and Lane’s thoughts flew to 
her mistress. “Oh, how can I tell her ? What killed 
him?” 

The instant acceptance of the situation was char¬ 
acteristic of Lane; she had concern only for her 
beloved mistress, and was already planning how 
best to break the news. 

“I don’t know. I’m about to call Doctor Avery. 


48 Wheels Within Wheels 

He died in the night,—he was still down in the 
library—” 

“Bless us, Mr. Magee, was he murdered ?” 

“Not that I know of—” Magee looked at her 
thoughtfully. “Now, Nurse, it’s an awful situation, 
in any case. I’m going to depend on you to do 
your part, which is, of course, looking after Mrs. 
Howland. But, also, I want you to keep the 
servants in order. The women, particularly. I 
don’t want a lot of talk and gossip and curious 
speculation. We only know the one fact,—Mr. 
Howland is dead. For further information we must 
wait. Understand ?” 

“I understand, sir,” and Lane looked at him 
gravely. “Am I to tell nobody?” 

“You are to tell Mrs. Peters. Go to her at once, 
tell her and she will tell her husband. Then, when 
you tell Mrs. Howland, you may ask Mrs. Peters 
to be present, or not, as you think wisest. Tell me, 
Lane, what do you think? Will Mrs. Howland be 
hysterical, or will she take it quietly?” 

“Hard to say. She’s more likely to be struck 
dumb,—yet, again, she may go into violent hysterics. 
You know, there’s been nothing like this since little 
Angela died.” 

“I know. That nearly unseated her reason,—this 
may entirely do so. Do you want me to be present, 
—or, or Mr. Swift?” 

“No, not at first. I can do best alone. Of course, 
you’ll see her after.” 


You Want My Father? 49 

Lane stalked from the room, but her usual mili¬ 
tant bearing was gone. She was trembling, almost 
limp, yet with a realization of her duty, and a de¬ 
termination to do it as best she might. 

After calling Doctor Avery on the telephone, 
Magee remained in the hall, and shortly the Peterses 
joined him there. 

Sally’s round face, devoid of its usual smiles, and 
Peters’ inquiring expression put the question they 
did not need to voice. 

“Yes,” Magee said, briefly, “Mr. Howland is 
dead. He must have died in the night,—while 
seated at his desk.” 

“But how—what—” Rob Peters began. 

“I don’t know, Mr. Peters,” and the secretary 
looked at him blankly; “it may have been a stroke 
or heart disease—” 

“But Ralph was a well man,” Peters asserted; 
he had no heart trouble,—he’s too young for a 
stroke—•” 

“What about Mary?” asked Mrs. Peters. “Does 
she know ?” 

“I’ve told Nurse Lane to use her discretion about 
telling her,” Magee returned. “Perhaps you’d 
better go up and see her,—I mean, see Lane—” 

“I will,” and Sally Peters went quickly upstairs. 

“What does it mean?” Peters asked of Magee. 
“Any chance of—of foul play?” 

“I don’t know,” Magee replied, in his calm, non¬ 
committal way. “Go in and look at him yourself.” 


50 Wheels Within Wheels 

“No,—I think I won’t,—” and Peters shuddered 
as he glanced toward the closed door of the library. 
“There’s no sign—of—of violence?” 

“None that I saw, but of course I made no exami¬ 
nation.” 

“Why not? Why don’t you—” 

“I think it wiser not to, Mr. Peters. Mr. How¬ 
land is positively dead, of that I am sure, so I have 
sent for Doctor Avery, and he will make the inves¬ 
tigation.” 

Peters looked curiously at the imperturbable secre¬ 
tary and was about to reply, when a hasty step was 
heard on the stairs and Miss Mills appeared. 

She was dressed in white, and the one-piece slip 
of serge was both short and scant. Her low-cut 
neckline and short sleeves, her white silk stockings 
and suede pumps gave her an air of distinction as 
her graceful, dainty figure hurried toward them. 

Always pale, her face was ghastly as she cried, 
“Oh, Mr. Magee, is it true—is it true?” 

“Yes, Miss Mills,” and Magee looked at her 
coldly; “it is quite true. Mr. Howland is dead.” 

“Where is he? I want to see him!” Her gray 
eyes filled with tears and her red lips quivered. 

“Go into the library if you wish,” Magee said, a 
little more gently. “Of course, do not—do not 
touch him.” 

“No,” and without another word, Edith Mills 
went into the library and closed the door behind 
her. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” Rob Peters said, 


You Want My Father? 51 

staring at the closed door. ‘There may be—evi¬ 
dence, you know,—clews—” 

“You imply crime, Mr. Peters.” Magee’s tone 
was accusing. 

“Well,—well—” Peters stammered, “you never 
can tell, you know.” 

“But I can’t think Miss Mills could do anything 
wrong. She was devoted to Mr. Howland, she is 
very emotional,—she—” 

A suppressed shriek sounded from the library, and 
Miss Mills rushed hastily out. 

“Oh!” she cried, “oh, that awful boy,—that hor¬ 
rid idiot! Make him go away!” 

Magee rose quickly and entered the library. 

Conrad was outside, his face pressed against the 
glass of the window. 

“I’ll settle him,” said Peters, who had followed 
Magee. 

Out through the front door Peters strode. 

“Conrad, you must go home at once,—right now, 
—and stay there! Go,—go along.” 

By way of emphasis, Peters took hold of his arm 
and started the idiot toward the gate. “Go on, 
now!” 

Reluctant but obedient, Conrad went, muttering 
as he slowly shuffled his way through the fallen 
autumn leaves. 

An entering motor car passed him, and in a mo¬ 
ment Doctor Avery entered the house. 

With the briefest nod of greeting, Austin Magee 
conducted the physician at once to the library. 


52 Wheels Within Wheels 

Also in silence, Doctor Avery approached the still 
figure and began his examination. 

Magee stood by with folded arms; Miss Mills, 
coming near him, watched the doctor, while her 
long white fingers twisted nervously. 

Rob Peters came to the doorway, from which he 
was hastily pushed aside as Leonard Swift came 
through. 

“What is it, doctor ?” he asked, loudly. “What 
killed him? Was it a stroke?” 

Swift drew near and, ignoring the others, took 
upon himself the mantle of authority then and 
there. 

“Make your report to me,” he said, importantly; 
“now Ralph is gone, I’m at the helm. What was it, 
doctor?” 

“I confess I’m puzzled,” and Doctor Avery turned 
a perplexed face toward his questioner. “I know 
Ralph Howland’s physical condition as well as I 
know my own, and he had no tendency toward heart 
disease, no trouble of that sort whatever. He had 
no affection of any sort that could have brought 
about this sudden death.” 

“Then was he—was he—” 

It was Edith Mills who spoke, her eyes big with 
terror, her face agonized and her whole body quiver¬ 
ing with nervous fear or excitement. 

“I don’t know—” Again the doctor gave that 
baffled look. “There is no evidence of a crime,—” 
He scrutinized again the dead face,—he bent closer 
and sniffed at the lips, he peered into the open, 


You Want My Father? 53 

staring eyes. “It is the most mysterious thing I 
ever saw! I must call in Mason.” 

“Shall I do it ?” asked Magee, helpfully. 

“Yes. Ring up Doctor Mason, the county medi¬ 
cal examiner. Get him to come at once,—and— 
but he'll know what to do. Tell him I can't make 
out what killed Howland.” 

Still pondering, the doctor again examined the 
body, looked about the desk, and glanced over the 
room. 

“Where's the bird?” he asked, suddenly. 

The others followed his eyes to the gilded cage of 
Ralph Howland’s pet canary. The door was slightly 
open and the cage empty. 

“Queer!” Leonard Swift said, “that bird was the 
apple of Ralph’s eye. Who could have left the cage 
unfastened?” 

“What about Mary?” asked Doctor A'very, un¬ 
interested further in the bird. “Does she know ?’’ 

“Not yet,” Swift told him. “I just saw Nurse 
Lane, and she said she should wait until Mary had 
eaten her breakfast before she told her.” 

“Good,” Avery commented. “Then, let us have 
breakfast, I've had none, and we could all do with 
a cup of coffee.” 

It was Mrs. Howland's custom to breakfast in her 
room, so the others went to the dining-room where 
the table was in readiness. 

“Guess I’d better tell Mary myself,” said Doctor 
Avery, after he had made a hearty meal. “No tell¬ 
ing what she’ll do.” 


54 Wheels Within Wheels 

He lumbered up the stairs, he was no longer a 
young man, and he had cared for Mary Howland’s 
physical well-being for many years, and without 
ceremony he tapped at the door of her boudoir. 

“Why, Doctor Avery, what are you doing here ?” 
she exclaimed, as Nurse Lane let him in. 

“How are you this morning?” and the doctor 
looked at her intently. 

“All right,” she returned, brightly, but the eyes 
that looked up at him, across her untouched break¬ 
fast tray were moving restlessly about, and her 
wandering gaze was unintelligent and uncertain. 

“She won’t eat,” complained Lane; “she won’t 
touch her coffee.” 

“Never mind, put it away for the present,” and 
the doctor sat down beside his patient and took her 
hand. 

“Mary,” he said, watching her closely, “where is 
Ralph?” 

“Where is Ralph?” she repeated, “yes,—that’s so; 
where is Ralph ?” 

“Do you know?” 

“Do I know ? No,—I don’t know—do you know ? 
Does anybody know?” 

“Mary,” he spoke with a quiet emphasis, “Ralph 
is dead.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I know that. Have you seen 
the will?” 


CHAPTER IV 

A Curious Scar 


M ‘'XOCTOR AVERY lumbered downstairs 
II again. 

“Mrs. Howland’s mind is very much af¬ 
fected,” he said, as he joined the group in the liv¬ 
ing-room. “After the death of her child, it hovered 
in the balance, but for years she has been practi¬ 
cally all right. This new tragedy, however, has, I 
fear, unhinged it, and she doesn’t know what she is 
talking about.” 

“How did she learn of her husband’s death?” 
asked Sally Peters, curiously. 

“I told her,” replied the doctor, a little shortly, 
and not adding that Mary had said she already knew 
it. “Better leave her alone for the present; Lane is 
looking after her.” 

“But how does she seem ? Is she quiet,—or vio¬ 
lent?” Sally persisted. 

“Perfectly quiet. Melancholy,—not really alive 
to the situation at all. I’ll watch her carefully, but 
she must see no one but the nurse just now.” 

Then Mason, the county physician, arrived. He 
had come from the county-seat, five miles distant, 
and was eager to hear the details of his strange 
summons. 


55 


56 Wheels Within Wheels 

The two doctors went to the library, and Avery 
awaited with interest the opinion of his colleague. 

But Mason was as puzzled as himself, and the 
two men stared at one another and at the face of 
the dead man. 

“The countenance, slightly cyanosed as it is, 
hints at poisoning—hydrocyanic,—for choice. But 
there's positively no odor on the lips or on the body. 
It's not a plausible explanation. Yet there’s no real 
symptom of heart failure,—it certainly is not a 
stroke of any sort,—I think we must report to the 
police.” 

“Oh,—the publicity—the—do you mean murder, 
Mason ?” 

“That’s what it looks like to me,—though I can’t 
fathom the means. Yet an autopsy may show the 
introduction of a long, fine, pointed instrument, hat¬ 
pin, say, or very slender dagger.” 

“But in that case, there would be—” 

“Oh, I know, Avery. I only say that I cannot 
learn the cause of this death without an autopsy. 
And I prefer to report to the police first.” 

“Better, of course. Shall I call the Station at 
Bannerton ?” 

For the peaceful little village of Normandale had 
never had enough wrongdoing in its community to 
support a local police force. 

Mason agreed and then he began to look about 
the room. 

“Know any of the details ?” he asked. “Howland 
likely to have been killed ?” 


A Curious Scar 57 

“Good Lord, no!” Avery broke out. “There 
never was a man less likely. And I don't for a 
minute believe he was. We'll prove a natural 
death.” 

“Hope so, I'm sure, as you're so anxious. How's 
his wife?” 

“Bad,—very bad. Always nervous and easily 
upset, this thing has just about finished her men¬ 
tality.” 

“Off her head?” 

“Practically. But quiet and amenable,—so 
far.” 

Doctor Avery did not at all like the county physi¬ 
cian. Mason was a much younger man than him¬ 
self and had the flippant manner and cocksure air 
of the newer generation. He eyed the dead man 
and Doctor Avery alternately. 

“Don't keep anything back, please,” he said. 

Avery started. “I'm not,” he returned, angrily. 
“Why should I?” 

“Don’t know, I'm sure, but you look uncommonly 
like a man with a doubt of some sort.” 

“I've a good many doubts, but the principal one is 
whether this death is a natural one, or—” 

“A suicide?” 

“No! not that! That's impossible. Ralph How¬ 
land had no motive for suicide, but if he had, he’d 
never be coward enough to do that,—nor would be 
so cruelly harm his wife.” 

“Maybe not—maybe not. By the way, what’s 
this?” 


58 Wheels Within Wheels 

Mason drew the other’s attention to a very small 
cut or scratch on the dead man’s cheek. 

“Can’t see any importance in it. Probably cut 
himself while shaving.” 

“Not just the right place for that. And, besides, 
it’s too fresh a scar. That cut occurred not more 
than a minute or two before the man died.” 

“At any rate, it couldn’t have caused his death,— 
if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“It’s a queer cut,-—like a little circle.” 

Doctor Avery scrutinized the wound. 

“The merest scratch,” he said; “might have done 
it with his finger nail.” 

“True,” agreed Mason. 

Then Chief Weldon and two of his men made a 
somewhat dramatic entry. A crime of any sort was 
of such infrequent occurrence in the neighborhood 
that it was met with an awed excitement not wholly 
unpleasant. 

“A murder? A dastardly murder?” Weldon in¬ 
quired, in a stagey whisper. 

“We don’t know that,” said Doctor Avery, testily, 
“but the case must be looked into.” 

“Yes, yes, indeed,” and Weldon rubbed his 
hands in anticipation of conducting the looking-into 
process. 

But by noon, though the autopsy had been com¬ 
pleted, the Chief of Police was as far from certain 
of having a criminal case on his hands as he had 
been at first. 

In the living-room and in the presence of the 


A Curious Scar 59 

assembled household he heard the report of the 
doctors. 

Although Mason was in charge, Avery was a 
physician of far wider experience, and the two had 
not quite come to an agreement. 

Both declared that there was absolutely no con¬ 
dition or symptom of the body incompatible with a 
simple, natural death, but neither was there any 
hint or indication as to the cause of death. 

The stomach contained no trace of poison, nor 
was there any on the lips or tongue, nor had any 
been introduced by injection into a vein. 

Moreover, there was no stab wound or shot, 
there was no bruise or abrasion of the skin, with 
the exception of the tiny scratch on the cheek; and 
that, both doctors averred, was not infected or seri¬ 
ous and could not by any possibility have brought 
death about. Indeed, they agreed that it had doubt¬ 
less come as the man's head dropped forward on the 
desk. 

“But,” said Doctor Mason, “I submit this opinion. 
I assert that when the autopsy was begun, the initial 
incision in the chest brought to my nostrils a sudden, 
fleeting whiff of the odor of prussic acid. This 
Doctor AVery did not notice, and he thinks I am 
mistaken about it.” 

✓ “I do not say Doctor Mason is mistaken, I merely 
say I noticed no such odor,” Avery said, quietly. 

“Is it essential?” asked Weldon, wonderingly.. 

“No,” said Avery, quickly, but Mason said, 
“Pardon me, I hold that it is. If such an odor was 


60 Wheels Within Wheels 

present, it indicates poisoning,—if not, we have no 
reason to suspect poisoning.” 

“Then look for some other cause,” said Doctor 
Avery, curtly, “for I am sure that odor existed only 
in my learned colleague’s imagination.” 

Seeing there was more or less of a personal issue 
just here, Weldon asked further questions as to other 
possible explanations of Ralph Howland’s death. 

And the two doctors were at one in their positive 
assurance that there was no symptom, no hint as to 
the manner in which death came. 

“It’s a strange thing,” Rob Peters burst forth, 
“that two experienced physicians, after an autopsy, 
can’t learn the cause of a death!” 

“It is a strange thing,” agreed Doctor Mason; “I 
don’t think I’ve ever seen such a case before.” 

“However,” and Austin Magee spoke with very 
evident relief, “I think we can dismiss the idea of 
crime and consider the death a natural one, since 
there is no evidence otherwise.” 

“I agree to that,” said Leonard Swift, and he too 
seemed relieved. 

Indeed they all were, for while death is bad 
enough, it is far worse to feel that it was brought 
about by human agency. 

Sally Peters’ face lost its look of horror arjd was 
merely sad; Miss Mills stopped crying and tried to 
still her quivering mouth. 

Rob Peters was frankly relieved and said so. 

But Chief Weldon said, “Not so fast,—not so 
fast. Negative evidence is far from conclusive. 


A Curious Scar 61 

Justice demands its own, and until we can prove the 
death a natural one, we must look further,—even if 
we fare worse.” 

Magee cast a quick look at the chief, and con¬ 
cluded that he was rather anxious than otherwise 
that the matter should turn out to be a crime. But 
he did Weldon injustice there. The man was hon¬ 
estly trying to do his duty, and he felt that this was 
too soon to turn down the case as finished. 

“There are other means of discovery,” Weldon 
went on. “Investigation may prove a willful crime, 
even if the results are not at first discovered by the 
physicians. At any rate it will do no harm for me 
to make inquiry as to the details of the matter. Will 
some one tell me the history of the case,—if I may 
call it that,—in a few words.” 

“I will tell you,” began Leonard Swift. “As my 
cousin's heir and successor to this property and to 
most of his business affairs, it devolves on me to 
make the statement.” 

“You are his heir?” asked Weldon. “Has his 
will been read?” 

“No; but I am familiar with its provisions and 
I know I am the principal heir of Ralph Howland’s 
estate.” 

“But he left a wife?” said Weldon, wondering. 

“She is amply provided for, but she is incapable 
of taking charge of the business matters and the 
property estates, which have been left to me. My 
late cousin knew that I would carry on his business 
interests and attend to his various enterprises, which, 


62 Wheels Within Wheels 

of course, a woman could not do. However, that’s 
neither here nor there. You can read the will for 
yourself.” 

Swift had risen, and it was with rather a benign¬ 
ant air that he looked about at the listening group. 
He seemed to have taken up the reins of government 
at once, and his appropriation of Ralph Howland’s 
estate was, apparently, to him a matter of course. 

“Where is the will?” asked Weldon. “Let us 
read it now.” 

But the detective who had come with the chief, 
one O’Brien, was anxious to learn further details 
of the events of the night before, and said so. 

“Ask some questions, if you like,” Weldon di¬ 
rected, a little relieved at the idea of assistance in 
his unfamiliar task. 

“Who saw Mr. Howland last?” O’Brien began 
briskly, and his sharp eyes darted round the room. 

“That’s hard to say,” Rob Peters remarked. “I 
had an interview with Mr. Howland in his study 
about eleven o’clock, and when I left him Mr. Magee 
was with him.” 

“I stayed half an hour or so, and when I left him 
Mr. Swift was with him,” the secretary narrated, 
and there seemed a tinge of satisfaction in his voice 
at thus shifting the responsibility. 

“Yes, I had a talk with him,” Swift agreed, “and 
I left him about midnight. He said he should sit 
up an hour longer, as he was not sleepy, and he had 
some matters to think over.” 

“He seemed well ?” the detective asked. 


A Curious Scar 63 

“Perfectly,” returned Swift; “never better. We 
discussed his will, in fact, he showed it to me, and 
when I said I hoped it would be many a long year 
before that document was called into use, he laughed 
and said he was sure it would.” 

“Where is the document ?” 

“In the right-hand upper drawer of his filing 
cabinet.” 

“Not in a safe?” 

“I only know where he put it last night,—after 
we had talked it over.” 

“All right. Now no one else present saw Mr. 
Howland after the hour of midnight?” 

There was no response for a moment, then Miss 
Mills said: 

“Mrs. Howland came downstairs after that.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I heard her.” 

“From your own room?” 

“Yes; I have especially good hearing, and I 
always hear any movements in the house after it is 
still for the night.” 

“Where is your room, Miss Mills?” 

“On the same side of the house as the library, but 
back,—at the rear.” 

“And from there you can hear people going up 
or down the carpeted staircase!” 

“Miss Mills has really abnormal hearing,” Sally 
Peters broke in. “Yes, she can hear,—as she de¬ 
scribes.” 

“I can,” Miss Mills repeated, calmly, and as she 


64 Wheels Within Wheels 

raised her big gray eyes to the detective’s face, he 
was inclined to believe anything she might say. 

“Why would Mrs. Howland go downstairs so 
late?” asked O’Brien, as he carefully watched the 
various faces. 

“To begin with,” Miss Mills vouchsafed, “Mrs. 
Howland is erratic and is quite likely to wander over 
the house at night if she is wakeful. Also, last 
night there were several thunderstorms. Mrs. How¬ 
land is afraid of these, and she doubtless went down 
to seek her husband. I know she started to do so 
earlier, while Mr. Swift was with him, but hearing 
the men engaged in conversation she came back up¬ 
stairs without going into the library.” 

“You saw all this?” 

“Yes, I stood in the upper hall waiting to see if 
I could do anything for Mrs. Howland. But when 
she came up she only said good night and went to 
her room.” 

“What time was this ?” 

“About twelve o’clock—I don’t know nearer than 
that.” 

“But you heard Mrs. Howland go down again 
later?” 

“Yes.” 

“At what time?” 

“I can’t tell you. I was wakeful myself and was 
lying in bed, in the dark, so I don’t know the time 
exactly. But I should say it must have been at 
least one o’clock. Perhaps half-past one.” 

O’Brien turned to the doctors. 


A Curious Scar 65 

“What time do you figure that Mr. Howland 
died?” 

“About twelve or one o’clock,” Doctor Mason 
said. 

“It’s impossible to say,” the older doctor put in. 
“We medical men are not clairvoyant. We can de¬ 
duce from symptoms as to the approximate time, but 
we cannot say positively within an hour or two.” 

“Well, we must be sure that he was alive when 
Mary went down,” Sally Peters said quickly; “if 
he hadn’t been she would have raised an outcry.” 

Doctor Avery bit his lower lip,—with him a sure 
sign of deep agitation. He alone knew that Mary 
Howland had said she already knew it when he in¬ 
formed her her husband was dead. What line of 
conjecture this might open up he was afraid to 
think. 

“That’s what I say,” he put in, abruptly. “It’s 
not possible to state these hours exactly. Miss Mills 
is not sure of the time Mrs. Howland went down¬ 
stairs, Doctor Mason and I cannot be sure of the 
exact hour of Mr. Howland’s death, nor can we 
make a good guess at it until we know what killed 
him. So, I hold that Mrs. Peters’ point is well 
taken. At whatever hour Mrs. Howland went 
downstairs, it was before the death of her husband.” 

“As to the house,” asked O’Brien. “Was it 
locked up for the night?” 

Leonard Swift answered this question. 

“We never lock up for the night,” he said, with 
a slight smile. “In this peaceful community rob- 


66 Wheels Within Wheels 

bery is a thing unknown. Never in my experience 
has Howland House had a key turned or a window 
fastened at night.” 

Chief Weldon nodded his head. “Nobody does 
around here,” he said. “If you suspect an intruder, 
O’Brien, there was doubtless ample chance for one 
to enter.” 

“Indeed, yes,” Swift assented. “The front door 
is never fastened, and when I left Mr. Howland 
the library windows were all wide open.” 

“But it was raining,” objected the detective. 

“Not then. The showers were fitful and slight,— 
mere dashes of rain with rumbling thunder and sud¬ 
den sharp flashes of lightning. And, too, the wide 
verandah roof shelters the porch so that no rain 
ever reaches the windows. It was warm and close, 
the steam heat was going in the house, and the night 
was sultry and oppressive, so all the library win¬ 
dows were open,—of that I’m sure.” 

“Yes, they were,” Magee said. He spoke almost 
mechanically, his eyes fixed on the questioning de¬ 
tective. 

O’Brien returned his gaze, and said, suddenly, “In 
what mood was Mr. Howland when you left him, 
Mr. Magee?” 

“A'ngry,” said Magee, succinctly. 

“At you?” 

“No.” 

“At whom?” 

“Oh,—nobody in particular—at circumstances—” 

“He was angry at me,” Rob Peters broke in. “I 


A Curious Scar 67 

had been talking to him and trying to interest him 
in a business proposal. He was very angry.” 

“Since Mr. Peters admits it, that is the truth,” 
said Magee, gravely. 

“Was Mr. Howland still angry when you talked 
to him, Mr. Swift? After Mr. Magee had left 
you ?” 

“He was getting over it,” said Swift, speaking 
slowly, as if choosing his words. “He was, I think, 
only temporarily anonyed at Mr. Peters' per¬ 
sistence.” 

“Oh, Mr. Peters persisted, did he? On what 
subject?” 

“I wanted Mr. Howland to put some money into 
a mining project,” Peters said; “he did not see it 
as I did, and we discussed it. I think the matter 
has no further interest for any of us now.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” and the questioner 
looked at him keenly, 

“Call in the butler, or whoever first discovered 
Mr. Howland in the library this morning,” Weldon 
decreed. 

Both Martin and Charles were summoned. They 
gave a detailed account of their discovery and 
awaited further questions. 

“This Conrad,—who is he?” asked O’Brien, in¬ 
terested at once. 

Doctor Avery responded. “He’s the village half¬ 
wit. A poor harmless boy, who moons about doing 
nothing most of the time.” 

“Boy?” 


68 Wheels Within Wheels 

“He’s about thirty, but he has so little intellect 
that every one speaks of him as a boy. I have 
known him all his life, and he has no homicidal 
mania, nor would he have intelligence to wreak real 
harm on any one.” 

“Oh, I don’t suspect him of murder,” said 
Weldon, “but it seems queer for him to be here, so 
far from his home, at all hours.” 

“He has always done so,” Avery returned. “His 
vagaries are inexplicable. But if any one is kind 
to him, and the Howlands always have been, he 
haunts their homes,—wanders in and out as he likes, 
and no one seems to mind him.” 

“I mind him,” said Edith Mills. “I can’t bear 
him. He gives me the creeps. He was prowling 
about this house all night long. I heard him.” 

“I suppose, though, his evidence would be of no 
value?” asked O’Brien. 

“None at all,” said Doctor A'very, positively. “If 
he answered a question his answer could not be de¬ 
pended on as truth. He is the son of the under¬ 
taker of the village, and one of his deep-seated 
notions is to get work for his father. He spends 
much of his time in his father’s shop and for the 
rest he wanders about aimlessly.” 


CHAPTER V 

The Clause in the Will 


T HERE was much more talk, much more in¬ 
quiry; more discussion and controversy; 
but the afternoon shadows began to fall 
with the great question still unsettled as to whether 
Ralph Howland met his death at the hands of a 
murderer or died from natural causes. 

Chief Weldon and his detectives, as well as 
Doctor Mason, seemed bent on the crime theory, 
while Doctor Avery and all the members of the 
household took the other view. 

Thus, it was plain to be seen, that all were more 
or less influenced by their own inclinations. 

But the police could get no definite evidence to 
help them out. 

It was all very well to say that since medical skill 
and experience could discover no natural cause of 
death there must have been a crime, but it was an¬ 
other thing to prove this. 

Both Weldon and O’Brien questioned and probed 
and racked their brains for ingenious theories to 
fit the case, but found none. 

Yet Doctor Mason persisted in his story of the 
fleeting whiff of the odor of prussic acid, and though 
Doctor Avery scoffed at it, if it were true it meant 
a fine start out for a poisoning case. 

69 


70 Wheels Within Wheels 

As county medical examiner, Mason was in full 
authority. He, therefore, gave burial permit, but 
he reserved his decision as to what was the cause 
of death. 

And so Conrad’s father was at last called in. 

John Stryker was accustomed to houses of mourn¬ 
ing, and was possessed of that sleek, shuffling man¬ 
ner peculiar to undertakers. 

But he had never been ushered into a household 
like this before, and he at once sensed the fact that 
sympathy was neither expected nor desired. 

So, always adaptable, he stood, awaiting orders 
and watching for a cue as to how to conduct him¬ 
self. 

“I’m in charge, Mr. Stryker,” Leonard Swift 
said, and his bearing was that of a man suddenly 
called upon to assume great responsibilities. “You 
will please attend to all details of the funeral of 
Mr. Howland, referring all matters of importance 
to me. Mrs. Howland is too ill to consider these 
matters at all, so you will look to me for instructions. 
Advice or counsel of Doctor Avery is at your dis¬ 
posal, of course. As to the funeral appointments, 
let them be dignified and proper, without any undue 
or ostentatious display.” 

“Yes, sir,—yes, sir,” said the black-garbed man, 
deferentially. “I have brought my books, sir,—will 
you,—ah,—select a—a casket ?” 

“Lord, no! Select it yourself. Merely remember, 
I said, dignified and proper,—see, dignified and 
proper.” 


The Clause in the Will 71 

“Yes, sir,—but the style, now,—the,—the cost—” 

“Go and look over his books, Swift,” advised 
Magee. “Really, you ought to take more interest—” 

“I don’t need advice from you, Magee,” Leonard 
Swift said, coldly. “When I do, I'll ask for it.” 

The secretary’s face showed the flicker of a smile, 
a superior sort of smile, quite enough to nettle 
Swift. 

He rose quickly and left the room in the wake of 
the somber undertaker. 

“A moment, please, Mr. Stryker,” said Weldon, 
calling him back. “Just a word about that boy of 
yours. He wasn’t at home last night?” 

Stryker’s face showed a sudden agonized look, as 
one reminded newly of an ever-present grief. 

“No,” he said, “but Conrad rarely is at home 
nights. He is,—he is not responsible, you see, and 
as he is quite harmless, I let him go where he will. 
He has done so for many years and no harm has 
ever come of it. Was he here?” 

“Yes; most of the night. Now, Mr. Stryker, 
there is perhaps a mystery about this death of Mr. 
Howland. If your son saw anything, could he tell us 
of it?” 

“No;” and the father’s face was positive though 
very grave. “No reliance whatever can be placed on 
his word. He does not mean to lie, he does not 
know lying is wrong; but his memory is a blank, 
and so he says one thing one minute and the op¬ 
posite the next. He made no trouble, did he? My 
Conrad?” 


72 Wheels Within Wheels 

So pathetic was the man’s face that Weldon said 
gently, “Not at all, Mr. Stryker. That is all. You 
may go.” 

“And yet the idiot boy was in the library last 
night,” said the detective, Green. 

Unlike O’Brien, this man was not given to asking 
questions, but preferred looking about, searching for 
clews, or, by watching people’s faces, learning more, 
he believed, than could be gathered from their actual 
speech. 

“How do you know that?” asked Magee, sur¬ 
prised out of his usual calm. 

“Who else let the bird out?” Green said. “I’m 
told this idiot chap has a sort of mania for freeing 
captive animals. Must it not be, then, that he freed 
the canary?” 

“It may be,” said Sally Peters, but Miss Mills 
said, “More likely not. Charles takes care of that 
bird, and he is sometimes careless enough to leave 
the cage door ajar. I’ve often fastened it after 
him.” 

“But that would be in the morning, wouldn’t it?” 
and Green eyed the girl keenly. “Birds are usually 
bathed in the morning.” 

“But they are fed again at night,” Edith Mills 
spoke pertly. “At least our birds are.” 

“It’s immaterial, anyway,” Weldon said; “I can’t 
connect that poor half-wit with this crime—” 

“If it is a crime!” said Magee, speaking almost 
angrily. 


The Clause in the Will 73 

“It’s a crime, all right/’ Green said, and then he 
lapsed into his usual thoughtful silence. 

But he broke it later with a sudden announcement 
that he would take finger-prints of everybody. 

Weldon smiled. “I wondered how long before 
you’d get at that,” he said. “Mr. Green is a firm 
believer in the finger-print method. I trust no one 
will object, for Green takes every hand from the 
head of the house to the lowest scullery-maid.” 

“The head of the house is dead,” said Magee, 
solemnly, and quite as if he refused to recognize 
Swift’s claim to that title. 

“That won’t prevent my getting his prints,” and 
with that Green left the room. 

“Good heavens, do you suppose he’ll go in and 
pester Mary?” said Doctor Avery. 

“Yes, he will,” Sally said; “he’s just that sort. 
Let’s go and head him off.” 

They found Green in the library. He had already 
taken the impressions of Ralph Howland’s dead 
hand and was now engaged in obtaining prints from 
Leonard Swift’s finger-tips. 

After a moment, during which the doctor and 
Sally Peters watched the procedure with interest, 
Green said, “I say, Mr. Swift, did you notice any¬ 
thing different in the library this morning from 
when you left it last night ? Anything, I mean, that 
would suggest the presence of a person in here after 
yourself?” 

The straightforward stare of Green’s eyes proved 


74 Wheels Within Wheels 

the honest intent of his question, and Swift replied: 

“No, Mr. Green, I think not. Or, well, yes, 
there’s one thing. There was a red book, a novel, 
on the desk, at Mr. Howland’s right hand. I don’t 
see it there now.” 

“A novel, now? Do you know the name of it?” 

“Yes, I do, for it’s a book we’ve all been read¬ 
ing. It’s called 'A Rolling Stone,’ a very popular 
story.” 

“Yes, oh, yes. I’ve read it,—everybody has. And 
it was here when you left the room? Who owns 
it?” 

“It was Mr. Howland’s, I suppose. It has been 
around for some time, sometimes in one room, then 
in another. I dare say ’tis of no consequence.” 

“Probably not,—probably not. And now, I must 
get on with my work. Every finger in this house,— 
that’s my intention.” 

“You’ll excuse Mrs. Howland?” said Doctor 
Avery. “As her physician, I advise against it.” 

“Oh, pshaw, now, doctor, it won’t hurt her a bit. 
Why, it will only take a minute.” 

“But what’s the use, Mr. Green? Surely you 
don’t suspect Mrs. Howland brought about her hus¬ 
band’s death?” 

“No, but when I take the prints I want a complete 
set,—of everybody that was in the house. If you 
object further, doctor, I shall think you have some 
definite reason for doing so. You know it cannot 
really harm Mrs. Howland.” 

“It may. She is in a seriously nervous state. A 


The Clause in the Will 75 

further shock might easily unseat her reason en¬ 
tirely.” 

“I won’t shock her. I’ll guarantee that she will 
be interested in the procedure.” 

Avery said no more, and Green went on his way 
without further restrictions. 

He had rather an ingratiating manner, and he so 
wheedled Nurse Lane that she readily allowed him 
to take her finger-prints, and also ushered him into 
the little boudoir where Mary Howland sat. 

“What is it?” Mrs. Howland said, looking at the 
detective. 

Green regarded her closely. To his experienced 
eye the process Doctor Avery had called unseating 
her reason had already taken place. Her glance, 
though direct enough, was a little vacant, a little un¬ 
seeing. 

“Nothing much,” said Green, casually. “Just put 
your finger-tips on this sheet of paper, please, Mrs. 
Howland.” 

Without the least objection, she did as directed, 
and then Green said, “Where did you put the will, 
Mrs. Howland?” 

“In that box,” Mary replied, pointing to a leather 
box on the table. 

“May I take it, please,—they want it down¬ 
stairs.” 

She made no objection, and Green took the docu¬ 
ment and put it in his pocket. Mary’s eyes followed 
his movements, but still with that blank unseeing 
stare of one who does not quite comprehend. 


76 Wheels Within Wheels 

“AVery’s right,” Green thought to himself. “A 
jolt of any sort would make her a maniac. But as 
yet, she is holding onto her brain.” 

Lane hovered in the background, watchful-eyed, 
but making no attempt to restrain the detective’s 
activities. 

Green went downstairs and gave the will to 
Weldon, with a brief account of its finding. 

“What made you think she had it?” Weldon 
asked. 

“Why, I had looked in the drawer they spoke of, 
and it wasn’t there. But on the drawer were fresh 
finger-prints, and as soon as I saw Mrs. Howland’s 
hands I knew they were hers. Nothing surprising 
that she should have possession of her husband’s 
will, but—it may establish the fact that she was 
downstairs last night,—later than the men were.” 

“H’m. Is she crazy enough to have killed him ?” 

“I don’t see how she could have done so. She’s 
crazy enough,—yes,—but how?” 

“How was he killed, anyway?” 

“Doctor Avery knows more than he tells. He’s 
shielding somebody—” 

“Must be Mrs. Howland, then. Who else?” 

“Might be anybody in the house. I can’t think 
Mason knows more than Avery about that prussic 
acid odor. I think Avery wants to hush it up—” 

“Well, he shan’t. I’m going to get at the truth 
of this thing. Now, I should say that will had better 
be read. Get the people together.” 

The entire household was summoned to the read- 


The Clause in the Will 77 

ing of Ralph Howland’s will. Mary Howland was 
not present, but was left in charge of Etta, her 
maid, while Nurse Lane joined the others. 

The provisions of the will were simple. About a 
third of the estate was left to Mary Howland. A 
large bequest was made to Austin Magee and goodly 
sums were left to Nurse Lane, to Miss Mills, and 
to several of the servants. A few friendly bequests 
were left to friends, including Mr. Peters, and the 
residuary legatee was Leonard Swift. 

But, and there was an important and astounding 
proviso, the bequest to Swift was not to be made “if 
my daughter Angela should be found.” 

“Angela!” cried Sally Peters, “why, she died 
when she was a baby!” 

“Five years old,” Doctor Avery corrected her. 

“What does that clause mean ?” asked Rob Peters, 
curiously. “How could the child be found? Was 
there any doubt of her death, Doctor Avery ?” 

“Not the slightest. She died of the sleeping sick¬ 
ness. There was a terrible epidemic of that disease, 
and half the children of Normandale succumbed.” 

“Then Ralph’s mind must have been affected,” 
said Peters. “And with Mary’s brain unsettled, that 
gives us two irresponsibles to consider.” 

“Conrad making three,” Leonard Swift added. 
“But I don’t understand this thing. You’re executor 
of the will, Magee, what do you know about it?” 

“I know that Mr. Howland believed that his 
daughter did not die in infancy, but that she is still 
alive—somewhere.” 


78 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Had he any real reason to think that?” said 
Doctor Avery, looking absolutely dumfounded. “If 
so, why was I not told about it ?” 

“He had a reason to think it might be so,” Magee 
returned, speaking slowly, and it seemed, unwill¬ 
ingly. “He hoped it might be so. But it is all un¬ 
certain. Td prefer not to say more at present.” 

“By Jove, you will say more,” Leonard Swift 
spoke angrily. “Not say more, indeed! You’ll tell 
all you know about this absurd story and tell it 
mighty quick, too. I’ll have you know that such 
a clause jeopardizes my interests, and I won’t stand 
for it! I believe that somebody,” he looked straight 
at Magee, “that somebody has trumped up a plan to 
make believe Angela is still living! Absurd!” 

“I think, Mr. Magee, you must tell all you know 
about this strange thing,” said Weldon, in his most 
judicial manner. 

“But why?” said Magee. “The will distinctly 
states that the property is to be Mr. Swift’s, unless 
the daughter appears. How can anything I have to 
say affect that?” 

“I told you so!” Swift cried. “There is a plot 
afoot to do me out of this inheritance, and Austin. 
Magee is at the bottom of it.” 

“There is no plot,” Magee said, quietly, “and if 
there were, it would be Mr. Howland’s, not'mine. 
It is his will we are discussing.” 

“There is a plot,” Swift persisted; “I hold, Mr. 
Weldon, that you must make Mr. Magee tell all he 


The Clause in the Will 79 

knows,—which, of course, amounts to nothing of 
importance !’ 5 

“I will tell,” said Magee, suddenly. “I think, 
perhaps it is the wisest course.” 

His bearing was that of a man with ^weighty 
secret to impart, and the little audience listened 
breathlessly. 

“About two years ago,” Magee began, “we had a 
notice from the Cemetery Association in Grant- 
burg—” 

“Where is Grantburg?” interrupted Swift. 

“It is a small town in New Jersey, and it is where 
Angela Howland is buried,” Doctor Avery informed 
him. 

“Was buried,” corrected Magee. “Yes, it is a 
small town, and the home of Mrs. Howland’s girl¬ 
hood days. When her child died, she wanted the 
interment in the old family plot at Grantburg, so 
the little casket was sent there.” 

“I remember perfectly,” said Avery. “I myself 
superintended its despatch, for Mrs. Howland was 
too ill and Mr. Howland too distraught to see to it.” 

“And you sent the casket out there by express,” 
said Magee. 

“Yes, it was during the awful epidemic. I 
couldn’t leave to go myself and it was expressed to 
the cemetery people out there. I went out there 
later to assure myself that everything was all right. 
I learned that it was and that Angela had been 
buried in the family plot. At the interment there 


80 Wheels Within Wheels 

were many of the relatives of Mrs. Howland and 
many friends and neighbors. I satisfied myself that 
everything was all right and reported to Mr. How¬ 
land.” 

“Yes,” and Magee looked thoughtfully at the 
doctor, “it was all right—as far as the burial went. 
But, it was an empty casket that was buried that 
day.” 

“What! Impossible!” Doctor Avery's eyes 
nearly bulged out of his head. “Why, I know it 
was the right casket,—I had selected it myself,—a 
little white one with silver handles,—and,—why, the 
nameplate was on it, besides!” 

“Yes, that is all true,—but the casket was empty 
when it was put in the ground.” 

“How do you know?” Doctor Avery spoke in 
an awed voice. 

“Because, as I began to tell you, about two years 
ago, Mr. Howland received word from the ceme¬ 
tery people, that owing to freshets the river that 
runs through the cemetery had overflowed its banks 
so often that lots on the bank of the river were 
unsafe, and it was necessary to remove the bodies 
buried in those lots to other localities. The lot of 
Mrs. Howland's family was one of these, and the 
relatives there had decided to have Mr. Howland 
consulted regarding the body of his daughter. 
Others from the same family plot were to be trans¬ 
ferred to another part of the cemetery. 

“Mr. Howland at first thought he would merely 
direct that his daughter’s casket be moved with the 


The Clause in the Will 81 


rest,—then he changed his mind and asked me to 
go out there and see about it. He had a great de¬ 
sire,—perhaps it was morbid, but it was very 
strong, to look again on the face of his child, if 
the remains were in such condition as to render it 
advisable. He asked me to go out first and see as 
to this. He had been told that children dying of that 
disease preserved their natural looks for many 
years. I did not at all enjoy the prospect of the 
errand, but I could not refuse Mr. Howland’s re¬ 
quest. So I went, and there was absolutely nothing 
in that little casket. Nor was it possible that there 
had been a body buried in it. The satin lining was 
fresh and clean, though a trifle yellowed by time. 
But there was no dust, no bits of the clothing, no 
signs of a disintegrated body. It would be impos¬ 
sible for the remains to have disappeared so abso¬ 
lutely and leave no trace or stain. 

“I conferred with the cemetery authorities, and 
while surprised beyond measure, they agreed that 
there had been no body buried in that coffin. For 
it was improbable, practically impossible for it to 
have been removed without their knowledge. It 
was an utter mystery, and I bound them to secrecy 
until I could report to Mr. Howland and learn his 
desires in the matter.” 

“Incredible!” Doctor Avery said, staring at 
Magee as at some strange being. “I can’t seem to 
believe it.” 

“Yet it is all true,” Magee said, “exactly as I 
have told it. Nor do we know anything that in any 


82 Wheels Within Wheels 

way explains the mystery. Ever since my discov¬ 
ery, Mr. Howland and I have been trying to learn 
something further about it, but have been unable 
to do so. We questioned Mr. Stryker very closely 
as to the details of the shipment and so forth.” 

“Mr. Stryker is here now,” suggested the doctor, 
“why not call him in?” 

The undertaker was summoned, and he repeated 
what he had already told Ralph Howland. 

“I can’t understand or explain it,” he said. “I 
put the little body in the casket myself and closed 
the lid. At that time there was a terrible rush of 
business, so many children died at once, and I was 
overworked. But I remember distinctly the How¬ 
land child and I know I did all my duties exactly 
as usual. I remember the little girl well. She wore 
a short white frock, trimmed with lace, and a string 
of coral,—not beads, but that branchy coral that 
looks broken.” 

“And you sent the casket to the train yourself?” 

“Of course I did. Went to the depot with it 
and saw it properly shipped. I had receipts from 
the New Jersey people and due notice of its safe 
arrival.” 

“Then,” said Detective Green, “the body must 
have been taken out en route. That is a strange 
thing to happen! Was the casket opened at the 
time of the burial in New Jersey?” 

“No,” said Austin Magee, “it was not.” 


CHAPTER VI 
The Girl in the Doorway 


“T M THAT’S stranger yet!” said Leonard 
Swift, who was listening with a resent¬ 
ful look in his dark eyes. “Why 
wasn’t it?” 

“No, that’s not strange,” Doctor Avery said; “the 
casket was taken from the railroad directly to the 
cemetery, and the interment did not seem to call for 
its opening.” 

“Why are you so distressed, doctor ?” Sally Peters 
asked kindly. “No possible blame can attach to you, 
—nor to Mr. Stryker. If the little casket was 
robbed of its contents on the way, you are not re¬ 
sponsible.” 

“It was all wrong to send it unattended,” Doctor 
Avery said, broodingly. “I said so at the time, but 
there seemed nothing else to do. An epidemic, such 
as that one was, left no time or opportunity for any¬ 
thing except the care of the living.” 

“Look here,” Swift said, suddenly, “if there was 
nothing in that casket when it was buried, why 
didn’t the New Jersey people notice how light it 
was ?” 

“They didn’t,” said Magee. “I suppose they 
didn’t know how big the child was. They may have 
thought her a mere baby. Anyway, a child’s casket, 
boxed, is of sufficient weight to ignore the added 


84 Wheels Within Wheels 

weight of the little body. I’m giving you the ex¬ 
planation they gave me out there. I think the truth 
is, they never thought anything about that point. 
However, there's my story and it's a true one. Now, 
for the past two years, Mr. Howland has been trying 
in every possible way to get some inkling of what 
could have become of his daughter. His theory is 
that she was taken from that casket alive." 

“Alive!" cried Doctor Avery. “Impossible!" 

“But is it impossible, doctor?" Magee asked. “In 
the rush and hurry of the epidemic, might it not be 
possible that you thought the child dead, when she 
was not ?" 

“My God!" groaned the doctor, “if I thought 
that—" 

“It is only theory," went on Magee. “But it be¬ 
came an obsession with Mr. Howland. He thor¬ 
oughly believed that little Angela did not die,—that 
she awakened and was somehow released from the 
casket and that she is still alive. It was this belief 
that made him add that condition to his will." 

“Does Mary Howland know of this?" asked Mrs. 
Peters. 

“Not a word," replied Magee. “Mr. Howland 
would not tell her, knowing the uncertainty would 
be harder for her to bear than the loss of the child." 

“Do you suppose she read this will ?" asked 'Green, 
suddenly. 

“I dare say," returned Doctor Avery, “and I be¬ 
lieve that is what has made her so much more un¬ 
settled in her mind. The implication that Angela 


The Girl in the Doorway 85 

could be alive was quite enough to disturb her brain 
to the extent of irresponsibility.” 

“Well, I think it’s all poppycock,” said Leonard 
Swift, scornfully. “I’m quite willing to take the 
chances of that child turning up again. She never 
will. I agree the body must have been taken from 
the casket on its way to its final resting place, but 
I don’t for a minute believe it was a live body. It 
had been in the closed casket over night,—had it 
not, Mr. Stryker?” 

“Yes, it had,” said the undertaker positively, “in 
my rooms.” 

“The child couldn’t survive that, could she, 
doctor ?” 

“No,” replied Avery, speaking as one in a daze. 
Afrd indeed, this strange story had completely 
floored the good old doctor. If he had really 
thought the Howland child dead when she wasn’t, he 
could never forgive himself! 

“This whole story is strange and exceedingly in¬ 
teresting,” said Chief Weldon, at last, “but, even at 
that, it is not our present business. That is, to find 
out if Mr. Howland was put to death and, if so, by 
whom. I cannot see as the reading of his will has 
thrown any light on this matter.” 

“Except,” said Green, “that it is sure that Mrs. 
Howland came downstairs late last night and took 
the will away with her. Might it be possible, Doctor 
Avery, that the knowledge of the will’s contents 
turned her brain, and in her madness she killed her 
husband ?” 


86 Wheels Within Wheels 

“It is quite possible that the reference to her 
daughter would cause her to lose her mind, but 
I cannot see how that indicates crime on her 
part.” 

“Mad people are often very ingenious,” persisted 
Green, who was really greatly impressed with this 
new idea. 

“But how could she do it?” 

“Hatpin,” said Green, shortly. “You doctors say 
you can’t find any wound, but there must be one. 
People don’t die of no cause whatever. A hatpin 
is a woman’s weapon, and its mark is so infinitesimal 
that it can easily be overlooked in the most careful 
search. I’m told, too, that a tiny puncture like that 
closes up again entirely, so it is really indiscerni¬ 
ble.” 

“Not likely,” growled Doctor Avery, who was 
nervously upset by the mental strain he was passing 
through. 

“But possible,” Green insisted. “A puncture at 
the base of the brain—he has such thick hair you’d 
never see it—” 

“There wasn’t any,” and Avery spoke sternly. 
“I looked especially for that.” 

Green said no more, but he shook an obstinate 
head. 

“At risk of repetition,” said O’Brien, “I’d like 
you men to tell me again of your visits to the library 
last evening. Who went there first, to talk to Mr. 
Howland ?” 

“I did,” said Rob Peters. “As soon as the dinner 


The Girl in the Doorway 87 

guests had gone, I went there at once to discuss a 
business project with him.” 

“Was your talk pleasant—amicable?” 

“If you mean did we quarrel,—we did not. But 
we were not any too amicable, for we disagreed on 
the subject in hand.” 

“Which was?” 

“A mining project in which I hoped to interest 
Mr. Howland,—but I failed.” 

Peters spoke bitterly, as if still harboring rancor 
against the dead man. 

“Who went in next ?” 

“I,” answered Austin Magee. 

“You found Mr. Peters there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you hear any of the conversation?” 

“Only a few words.” 

“Of what tenor were they?” 

“Merely persistent pleading on Mr. Peters' part, 
and continued refusals from Mr. Howland.” 

Magee spoke indifferently, as if the subject was 
without interest for him. 

“And who came in next?” 

“Mr. Peters went away,” Magee vouchsafed, “and 
I was alone with Mr. Howland for a short time, and 
then Mr. Swift came and I left and went upstairs 
to bed.” 

“What were you and Mr. Howland discussing, 
Mr. Magee?” 

“We were talking on the, to him, all-absorbing 
subject of his daughter.” 


88 Wheels Within Wheels 

“They were,” exclaimed Swift, “I heard them as 
I entered. And Magee was trying to persuade Mr. 
Howland that she had been found! Ridiculous! I 
can tell you all, that as master here, I will stand 
none of this hocus pocus! It’s all of a piece with 
the mediums and spiritists who try to deceive gullible 
men and women about the return of their sons lost 
in the war! I mean, they pretend to get messages, 
and bring back the spirits of the dead ones,—in this 
case, there is an even greater deceit, in pretending 
to recover a living body!” 

Austin Magee frowned a little as he silently con¬ 
templated the speaker. It was plain to be seen 
Leonard Swift was greatly annoyed at the idea of 
a living Angela and did not believe in any such 
thing. 

“At what time was this, Mr. Magee?” asked 
O’Brien. 

“When I went upstairs ? About half-past eleven, 
I should say. I don’t know positively.” 

“I do,” said Edith Mills. “It was just half-past 
eleven.” 

“Why were you listening?” the detective asked 
her suddenly. 

“I wasn’t,—especially,” and she fixed her gray 
eyes on him in a way that disconcerted him a little. 
“I have especially good hearing and I hear 'every 
one that goes up or downstairs or through the halls, 
particularly at night when the house is still.” 

“And you always note the time ?” 

This was intended to be sarcastic, but it missed 


The Girl in the Doorway 89 

its mark, for Miss Mills merely continued her con¬ 
templative gaze, saying, “Nearly always.” 

“And what did you and Mr. Howland talk about, 
Mr. Swift?” was the next inquiry. 

“Only on matters in general. We talked about 
the mining proposition, and I learned that Mr. How¬ 
land was definitely against it—” 

“He was leaning toward it in his talk with me,” 
Magee deliberately interrupted the speaker. 

“Was he? Was he, Magee?” and Rob Peters 
looked suddenly alert. 

“Very much so,” Magee assured him, but Leonard 
Swift said coldly, “Mr. Magee must have misunder¬ 
stood him, for Mr. Howland told me he would have 
nothing to do with it.” 

“And what other subjects arose?” 

“Only a few unimportant business matters. Inci¬ 
dentally, Mr. Howland spoke of his will and showed 
me where it was, in the cabinet drawer.” 

“He showed it to you?” 

“No, but he told me the gist of its contents. He 
did not, however, say anything about his daugh¬ 
ter.” 

“The drawer was unlocked ?” 

“It was at that time. I assumed Mr. Howland 
would lock it up before he retired.” 

“You left him there, in the library?” 

“Yes; I bade him good night and went upstairs 
at a little after twelve, I think.” 

“You heard Mr. Swift go upstairs, Miss Mills?” 
and the detective turned to her. 


90 Wheels Within Wheels 

“I am not officially a timekeeper in this house,” 
she said, “but, yes, I did hear Mr. Swift come up, 
a little after midnight.” 

“And at what time did you then go downstairs 
yourself ?” 

O’Brien shot the question at her with such sud¬ 
denness that the girl was caught off her guard and 
stammered a trifle as she replied: 

“Why—why,—I didn’t go down at all.” 

“Oh, yes, you did,—after Mr. Swift came up.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“You went down for that red book,—that 
novel—” 

“Oh, yes, so I did,” and Edith Mills spoke 
quickly. “You see, I was very wakeful, and I wanted 
that book to read, so I slipped down and got it. 
Mr. Howland sat there, but he was thinking deeply, 
so I just took the book and went back, softly. I 
don’t think he even heard me come in.” 

“What time was this?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,—I’d been awake a long time, 
—not so very long—” 

“Miss Mills, was Mr. Howland alive when you 
went into that room?” 

“Why, yes, of course,—that is,—I suppose so— 
oh, I don’t know!” and the girl burst into a flood of 
nervous tears. * 

“You saw him sitting at his desk—” 

“Yes.” 

“His head bowed over—?” — 

“A' little,—as if he might have been asleep.” 


The Girl in the Doorway 91 

“Be careful what you say, Miss Mills. And tell 
me about what hour that was.” 

“I don’t know, I tell you— Leave me alone!” 

She rose and rushed out of the room and up the 
stairs. 

“Never mind her now,” O’Brien said, as Sally 
Peters rose to follow her. “She won’t run away, 
and she has told all she knows.” 

“If I may be permitted a suggestion,” Rob Peters 
said, “why not quiz that idiot boy, Conrad. To 
be sure he wouldn’t tell a coherent story, but he 
might give some broken sentences that would offer 
a clew.” 

“I expect to do that,” and O’Brien nodded, “all 
in good time.” 

“He’s outside, prowling about now,” said Sally, 
who was near the window. 

“Have him in,” ordered Swift. “Let’s see what 
we can do with him.” 

But they could do little with the poor chap. He 
answered all questions willing and volubly, but his 
statements made no sense. 

“You here last night?” O’Brien began, a little un¬ 
certain how to address this strange witness. 

“Yeppy,—yeppy,” and the. lack-luster eyes rolled 
about uncannily. “Yep, I was here all night—all 
night.” 

“You let the bird out of his cage?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,—poor little birdie. I let him out, 
—I let him out. Nice little birdie. Where’d he 
go?” 


92 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Were you on the porch, looking in the window 
all night ?” 

“All night—all night—all night I was.” 

Sally Peters hastily left the room. The idiot's 
sing-song got on her nerves too much for her to 
remain. 

But O'Brien made a few more efforts. 

“You saw Mr. Howland through the win¬ 
dow ?'' 

“Oh, yes,—oh, yes,—all night. He sleeps in his 
chair! In his chair! Not go to bed—oh, no.” 

“When you came in the room and let out the bird 
was Mr. Howland asleep?” 

“Oh, yes, very asleep—very asleep.'' 

“Did you touch him?” 

“Wake him up? Oh, no,—no. Let him sleep,— 
poor man so tired. I go out softly,—softly,— 
softly.” 

“Now, whatever happened to Ralph Howland, 
that idiot had no hand in it,” declared Swift. “Do 
send him away,—he's awful!” 

“I awful?” and Conrad roused a semblance of 
mild anger. “Bad Mr. Swift,—don’t call poor Con¬ 
rad awful.” 

“Better not antagonize him, Swift,” Austin 
Magee said; “he doesn’t forgive easily.” 

“He can’t remember,” and Swift laughed. “Send 
him away, O’Brien.” 

“Just a minute. From the window, Conrad, when 
you looked in, who was in here?” 

“All everybody. Charles come,—and Martin 


The Girl in the Doorway 93 

come,—and Misser Swift, and Misser Magee, and 
Misser that man,” pointing to Peters, “and Angel 
lady come.” 

“That’s Mrs. Howland,” Magee explained. “She 
may or may not have come, but that’s Conrad’s 
name for her.” 

“Yes, angel lady come,” Conrad repeated, “and 
gay girl come—” 

“That's Miss Mills,” Magee again said, explana¬ 
torily, “the boy has names for us all.” 

“You saw all these in the room?” 

“Oh, yes,—oh, yes,—oh, yes,—” 

“Perhaps he did and perhaps he didn’t,” Magee 
said. “There is really no reliance to be placed on 
his statements. We’ve often proved that.” 

So the half-wit was sent away, and none of his 
story was taken into consideration. 

The detectives continued to investigate, but there 
was little learned aside from what was already 
known. 

The death of Ralph Howland seemed to be an 
insoluble mystery, which, perhaps, was no mystery 
at all. 

Leonard Swift and the Peterses declared they 
were sure it was a simple case of heart failure, say¬ 
ing that disease often lay dormant and unsus¬ 
pected. 

Austin Magee, having been several times snubbed 
by Swift, expressed almost no opinions and seemed 
to be awaiting developments. 


94 Wheels Within Wheels 

Doctor A'very felt his burdens almost greater than 
he could bear. 

The responsibility of deciding the cause of How¬ 
land’s death, the ever-present responsibility of tak¬ 
ing care of Mary Howland, her mind now a merci¬ 
ful blank, but liable to break into mania at any 
moment, and, most fearful of all, the fear that he 
had been the means of the enclosure of a living child 
in a casket, with results utterly unknown, was almost 
too much for the placid, easy-going old man, whose 
life had passed with little or no such excitement as 
this. 

The whole village became aroused over the mat¬ 
ter. It could not be kept secret, and the report 
that Angela Howland’s body had been taken from 
its coffin stirred the town to a frenzy. Each mother 
who had lost a child in the dread epidemic of six¬ 
teen years ago at once feared her baby had been 
buried alive, and John Stryker’s life became a bur¬ 
den from the visits of distracted women. 

Wild stories were rife as to premature burials, 
which when traced to their source proved to be pure 
fiction. 

The funeral of Ralph Howland was held without 
any further elucidation of the mystery of his death. 

No definite word was had of a living Angela, 
and Austin Magee vouchsafed no information re¬ 
garding what he knew of the matter. 

“I know no facts,” he said, once, in answer to 
importunate inquiries. “It was all a theory of Mr. 


The Girl in the Doorway 95 

Howland’s brain, and I shall tell it to no one, unless 
Mrs. Howland gets well enough to hear it, or unless 
something definite transpires.” 

Leonard Swift took possession of his inheritance 
as soon as matters could be arranged. He gave 
Austin Magee notice that his services were no longer 
required, but Magee returned that he was executor 
of the will, and should stay on to see that its be¬ 
quests were duly carried out. He said that if Swift 
wished, he would go to live at the village inn, but 
he should prefer to remain in the house for a few 
weeks or so. 

Swift couldn’t deny him this without being posi¬ 
tively churlish, so Magee remained. 

Mary Howland, kept in absolute quiet and seclu¬ 
sion by Nurse Lane, grew better in mind and body 
and forgot, apparently, what she had read in the 
will. 

Indeed, Doctor Avery was not sure that she had 
read it, after all. But the good doctor did have a 
slight fear, deep in his heart, that Mary Howland 
was responsible for the death of her husband. 

He had not noticed the prussic acid odor, but he 
fully believed his colleague’s attestation of its pres¬ 
ence. And that, without question, meant poison. 
How Mary Howland could accomplish such a deed, 
he didn’t know, but the old man was without much 
imagination, and he assumed that the cunning of a 
disordered brain could accomplish many things. 

He breathed this to no one, except for a hint to 
Nurse Lane of the possibility. This hint Lane 


96 Wheels Within Wheels 

buried deep in her own heart and kept even closer 
watch over her beloved charge. 

The Howland lawyer, one Esterbrook, came often 
to the house, to advise and assist in the settlements. 

One afternoon, perhaps a fortnight after the 
death of Ralph Howland, Esterbrook was in the 
library with Swift, Magee and the stenographer, 
Miss Mills. 

After a slight tap, Martin opened the door. 

Without a word he ushered in a girl,—a young 
thing, slim, dainty and exquisitely gowned. 

She stood, framed in the doorway, one hand on 
the knob, and looked from one to another of the 
men, her glance finally coming to rest on Edith 
Mills. 

The two girls stared, seemingly spellbound; Miss 
Mills’ bold, eager eyes taking in every detail of the 
simple but chic costume of the stranger, while she, 
in turn, absorbed Edith Mills in one comprehensive 
glance. 

Then, stepping inside, she stood a moment, still 
silent. 

A dark fur round her neck seemed to choke her, 
and she loosened it with an impulsive gesture. 

Again, she glanced in turn at each man, and then, 
seemingly by instinct, she moved nearer to the law¬ 
yer, Esterbrook. 

“I am Angela Howland,” she said. “Where is 
my mother?” 


> 


CHAPTER VII 

“I Am Angela!” 

T HE way the four hearers took this speech 
was an interesting study in human nature. 
James Esterbrook exhibited all the signs 
of a man who has received a stunning shock. His 
lips parted slightly, his eyes stared, and he thrust 
his head forward as if in an endeavor to understand, 
while his hands gripped tightly the arms of his 
chair. 

Austin Magee, also startled, had an alert eager 
air, and he gazed intently at the girl, though now 
and then his eyes darted from one to another of 
the group, apparently to note their mental attitudes. 

Leonard Swift looked both angry and incredu¬ 
lous. He fairly glared at the intruder,—for it was 
quite evident that he so considered her. His lips 
moved uncertainly, as if he were about to speak, but 
undecided what to say. 

Edith Mills was the most composed of any. She 
surveyed the visitor calmly, she even gave her an 
enigmatical little smile, but her face expressed an 
amused tolerance as if she couldn’t take this thing 
seriously. 

The girl who had come in did not repeat her 
words, but stood, her hand still on the doorknob, 
97 


98 Wheels Within Wheels 

and with questioning eyes, as she awaited a re¬ 
sponse. 

None came for a moment. 

Leonard Swift was thinking: “A brazen impostor! 
How dare she?” 

The lawyer thought: “Can it be possible? How 
pretty she is!” 

Magee pondered: “There is one definite resem¬ 
blance, at least.” 

And Edith Mills said to herself: “What perfect 
clothes,—and how well she wears them!” 

The girl was garbed in soft black. Her outer 
garment was of cape fashion, which, as it fell back 
over her outstretched hand, showed a white lining. 

Round her little white throat was a string of 
black beads and on her heavy, soft, black hair was a 
small toque with a long, curling feather. 

Her eyes were brown and mutely appealing as 
she looked from one to another, yet as the silence 
continued, a mutinous expression curved her very 
red lips, and she seemed about to speak again. 

But Swift forestalled her. 

“What do you mean,” he said, in a tone of illy 
suppressed anger, “by such a claim? If you think 
you can impose on me, you are greatly mistaken. 
Who are you?” 

“I am Angela Howland,” she repeated, unabashed 
and also unmoved by Swift's quite evident antago¬ 
nism. “As to my claims or credentials, I will dis¬ 
close them to no one but my mother.” 

The red lips shut with an air of finality, and Edith 


“I Am Angela!” 


99 

Mills wondered what lipstick the girl used to get that 
exceedingly natural effect. Her cheeks, too, were 
faintly rose-tinted, with a bloom that Miss Mills 
recognized as art, though the men did not. 

“In the first place/’ Esterbrook found his voice 
at last, “Mrs. Howland is ill and is not receiving 
'visitors. In the second place, I, as her lawyer, and 
the lawyer of her late husband, cannot allow you to 
make your astonishing statement without attendant 
proofs, which must be shown to me and to Mr. 
Swift.” • 

“Mrs. Howland is ill ?” the girl said, her eyes full 
of affection, “then let me go to her at once, I tell 
you I am her daughter,—Angela.” 

She said the last word, with a caressing accent, 
as if the sound of it pleased her. Her manner was 
distant, unconcerned, but very gentle. 

Her whole attitude was that of one who expects 
no resistance and is even unable to recognize any. 

But Leonard Swift had lost his temper, and he 
blurted out, rudely: 

“There’s no use, Miss,—you can’t put this thing 
over! You’ve heard somehow of this strange case, 
and you’ve trumped up a plan,—but it won’t work. 
Better give it up and go away quietly.” 

The girl’s eyes,—they were of that glinting 
brown,—rather beryl than hazel,—turned slowly to 
Swift, and their regard was so appraising, so won¬ 
dering, that he fidgeted a little. 

Then she turned to Esterbrook. 

“If you are a lawyer,” she said, “you will see 


100 Wheels Within Wheels 

that I have justice done me. You must agree that 
since Angela Howland is missing, and since I claim 
that I am Angela Howland, my story should be 
heard.” 

“I do agree to that,” Esterbrook said, “there can 
be no doubt of that. But your story must be told 
to us,—not to Mrs. Howland, who is really too ill to 
hear it.” 

“But I will cure her—” the girl looked wonder¬ 
fully sweet,—“I am Angela.” 

Her simple statement seemed to her sufficient, but 
the others were not so easily satisfied. 

Edith Mills, engrossed in her study of this very 
strange person, decided at once that she was an im¬ 
postor but a very clever one. 

Austin Magee studied her and concluded that she 
might be the right one after all. 

Lawyer Esterbrook did not for a moment believe 
in her, and Swift, too angry to think clearly, had but 
one idea,—to get rid of her. 

“Tell your story,” commanded the lawyer, 
briefly. 

“For all of my life that I can remember,” the 
girl began, and even as she spoke, she took the seat 
that Edith Mills drew forward for her, not one of 
the men having performed this courtesy. 

But the visitor seemed not to notice the derelic¬ 
tion, and she threw back her fur-collared cape with 
the nonchalant ease of a familiar guest. Then, pro¬ 
ducing a dainty cigarette case, she selected one and 
lighted it. For this, she asked no permission, save 


“I Am Angela!” 101 

a slight inquiring glance in the direction of Miss 
Mills, who gave an acquiescent nod. 

“For all of my life that I can remember,” the 
low, tranquil voice repeated, “I have been called Ida 
Holmes Campbell. This is not my real name, but 
was given me by the dear woman who adopted me, 
and who brought me up to live a life of usefulness 
and duty.” 

The coldly critical eye of James Esterbrook was 
on her. 

His thoughts ran: “Be careful, young women. If 
you’re going to work the line of duty and virtue, 
your cigarette is out of the picture.” 

Ida Holmes Campbell returned his glance uncon¬ 
cernedly and crossed her legs more comfortably. 

Her gown was not especially short, but the slender 
ankles in their sheer black silk hose, and ribbon-tied 
Oxfords were an attractive sight. 

“Miss Jane Campbell, who took me to live with 
her, was a Scotch woman, who lived, at various 
times, in many parts of the world. To begin*the 
story at the beginning, I can only tell you the de¬ 
tails as she told them,—many times,—to me.” 

Miss Ida Campbell took a deliberate whiff of her 
cigarette, looked slowly round to see how the story 
was being received,—her attention being entirely im¬ 
personal,—and went on. 

“It seems she was traveling through New Eng¬ 
land, and when in a sleeping-car, she returned to her 
berth, after a trip to the dressing room, she found 
in it a small child, a girl of four or five years. 


102 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Surprised beyond measure, she concluded the 
child belonged to a fellow passenger and had been 
placed by nurse or mother in her berth by mistake. 

“She soothed the little one to sleep and awaited 
the return of its guardian. But no one ever claimed 
the child, and Miss Campbell was forced to the 
opinion that the baby had been abandoned and given 
over to her purposely. She was pleased rather than 
otherwise at the gift, for she took to the little girl 
at once; but being conscientious and deeming it her 
duty, she advertised, even employed detectives, to 
find out where the child belonged,—but all to no 
avail. She could learn no facts of the baby’s birth 
or parentage, and after a long and futile endeavor 
she gave up the search and accepted the child as 
her own. Adoption was impossible, for lack of data, 
but as long as she lived she acted the part of a wise 
and loving mother to her foundling. 

“I am that girl, and I claim that I am also Angela 
Howland.” 

“Upon what do you base such an extraordinary 
claim?” asked Esterbrook, coldly. He was inter¬ 
ested,—deeply interested in this fascinating girl,— 
but so far, had no confidence in her sincerity. It 
was his duty to protect the interests of his clients, 
and as yet, they seemed to him in no jeopardy. 

Yet, after all, there was something about this 
young woman, this very up-to-date, cigarette-smok¬ 
ing personality that inspired a sort of confidence, 
born, perhaps, of her own cocksure attitude. 

“My claims are not many,—and not all tangible,” 


“I Am Angela!” 


103 

she said, and the earnest look she gave the lawyer 
made him listen attentively. “Here is one,” and she 
took from her handbag a string of coral. 

“I claim that is the coral necklace that Angela 
Howland wore when she was—when she disap¬ 
peared.” 

“You know the details of the child’s burial,—of 
her disappearance?” 

“I do. I tell you I am that child.” 

“You recollect—you remember—” 

“Nothing. I was a mere baby—” 

“Five years old,” put in Leonard Swift, savagely. 
“I say, Mr. Esterbrook, I refuse to listen to any 
more of this harangue! Are you being hypnotized 
—or what?” 

Somewhat in the way that a human gaze is said 
to quell the ferocity of a wild animal, Miss Camp¬ 
bell’s slightly ironic smile silenced Leonard Swift. 
It was only a little smile, but it gave him to feel 
that he would better listen to the rest of this egre¬ 
gious fabrication. 

“Granting for a moment that you are Angela 
Howland,” Esterbrook said, still coldly, “you know 
that you were supposed dead, and that you were 
placed in a casket for burial ?” 

“I know that.” The girl’s eyes were solemn. 

“How did you get out?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” 

“You remember nothing of it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Then, how do you know that Angela Howland 


104 Wheels Within Wheels 

was supposed dead, and that, later, her body, alive 
or dead, was taken from its casket ?” 

“I know that,—from,—from reading it in the 
papers,—recently. ’ ’ 

“And you were clever enough to plan from that 
a scheme to impersonate that child, and to come 
here with a trumpery string of corals that you 
bought for the purpose, and you—” 

Leonard Swift’s rage fairly choked him, and he 
couldn’t go on. 

“You are so angry, sir, I think you must fear my 
story is true.” 

Again that faint glimmer of a smile, and Swift 
again writhed under it. 

But this incensed Edith Mills, who was quick to 
resent anything that annoyed or hurt the present 
master of Howlands. 

“Your story is so well rehearsed, and you tell it 
so glibly, that it sounds far from true!” Miss Mills 
exclaimed. 

And then the visitor favored her with one of those 
glances, that, ever so slightly tinged with amuse¬ 
ment, seemed to render their object absurd. 

“Go on,” the lawyer ordered, and Austin Magee, 
listening quietly, wondered if this could be the true 
Angela. 

“Miss Jane Campbell kept the necklace that she 
took from the throat of her foundling, and she also 
kept the clothing,—but that I have not with me.” 

“Couldn’t buy that as easily as corals,” sneered 
Swift. 


“I Am Angela!” 


105 


“Where k that clothing?” asked Esterbrook. 

“In Australia.” 

“Too bad it’s so far away.” The lawyer spoke 
with sarcasm. “It would be a strong proof,—which, 
I can hardly say the corals are.” 

“Yes? But as you know there has been no men¬ 
tion of the coral necklace in the newspaper stories. 
Why should I go and buy such a thing?” 

Esterbrook considered. That was so. Indeed, he 
himself had never heard of the corals. If it could 
be proved that the little Angela was buried wearing 
them, it was indeed a point. But far from conclu¬ 
sive. 

“Go on,” he said again. 

“I lived with Miss Campbell in Australia, in Eng¬ 
land and in France. Soon after the war my adopted 
mother died. Partly in the hope of learning my real 
parentage, and partly because I had a good position 
offered me, I came to America two years ago, and I 
have lived in New York City since.” 

“Yes? We are not particularly interested in your 
career,” Swift said. He had curbed his anger, and 
now spoke cuttingly. “But we will listen to your 
claim,—you haven’t made any real one as yet,— 
and then we will answer it, and—dismiss it.” 

“You may be interested to learn how I happened 
to know of the fact that Angela Howland was be¬ 
ing sought for.” And now, the light in the girl’s 
eyes, the lovely smile that lighted up the little face, 
held every one spellbound. 

“It was through my dentist.” Austin Magee gave 


106 Wheels Within Wheels 

a start. “He is a Doctor Prescott, in New York, 
and he had seen in the Dental Journals an adver¬ 
tisement that attracted his notice. It was a re¬ 
ward offered for the discovery of a missing girl. 
The peculiarity of her teeth was that the two front 
teeth were quite widely separated. ,, 

A sudden, intentional disclosure of Miss Camp¬ 
bell^ small white teeth showed the upper front ones 
so separated. 

The reddened lips came together again, and the 
voice went on: 

“Dentists were urged to inquire of their patients 
who showed this peculiarity as to their ancestry, 
and if any were learned to be in doubt as to their 
parentage they were asked to communicate with 
Mr. Howland. 

“Doctor Prescott had several who had separated 
front teeth, but of them all, I was the only one who 
could qualify otherwise.” 

“And you snatched at the opportunity!” Swift’s 
voice rang out. “Well, you can’t put it over. See?” 

“Be quiet, Swift,” said the lawyer, losing patience 
with the angry man. “Let us hear this out.” 

“Yes, I snatched at the opportunity,”—the smile 
made the words acceptable,—“and I wrote to Mr. 
Howland.” 

“You had an answer?” the lawyer spoke gravely. 

“My letter was answered by Mr. Magee. He told 
me that Mr. Howland died the same day my letter 
was received.” 

“That night,” Magee corrected. “I had the letter 


“I Am Angela!” 


107 

from this young lady that day. I told Mr. Howland 
about it that evening,—as we sat here in the library. 
He was, of course, deeply interested and directed 
that I should follow up the matter. He had ordered 
those advertisements put in the dentists' papers some 
time before. We had had a few other replies, but 
they all came to naught.” 

“As this would have done had Ralph Howland 
lived,—and as it must do anyway,” Swift declared. 

“I don't quite understand,” Esterbrook said; 
“why was the advertisement advisable ?'' 

Austin Magee answered him. 

“Ever since Mr. Howland learned of this disap¬ 
pearance of the child from the casket he was ob¬ 
sessed with the idea that she might be alive. He 
devised many ingenious methods of search, he em¬ 
ployed the cleverest detectives, both he and I racked 
our brains for chance efforts. Then one day, he 
remembered that the baby's teeth were separated, 
and that this was an inherited peculiarity. As we 
all know, Mrs. Howland's teeth are like that, and 
her mother's were the same. It is an inheritable 
condition, and though a slight hope, Mr. Howland 
eagerly tried it. His plan was to interview 7 every 
possible young girl in the country, who could be 
reached through the dentists, and who had the sort 
of teeth described. The advertisement has been run¬ 
ning nearly a year, and now perhaps it has suc¬ 
ceeded.” 

“Succeeded!” Swift cried. “I should say not! 
It is a clever dodge, I grant that, but there is not 


108 Wheels Within Wheels 

a word of truth in it! There are thousands of 
girls in this country with front teeth that do not 
join, are they all to be accepted as missing heirs of 
Ralph Howland?” 

“There are not so many,” Miss Campbell’s quiet 
look silenced him for the moment. “Doctor Pres¬ 
cott has several such patients, but not many, and no 
others of my age. While it is not a rare condition, 
at the same time it is not a common one,—as you 
can all affirm by running over your list of acquaint¬ 
ances. How many have separated front teeth?” 

There was a moment’s silence, and the lawyer 
nodded his head. “That is so. I can think of no 
one at the moment, except Mrs. Howland.” 

“I only know of two others,” said Austin Magee. 

“You’re in this plot,” Swift accused him. “You 
think you can put it over because Ralph Howland 
is not here and Mrs. Howland is not competent. 
But you can’t do it! I’ll fight it to a finish!” 

“Do be quiet, Swift,” Esterbrook admonished 
him. “There’s no question of a fight as yet. This 
matter has gone far enough to demand careful con¬ 
sideration. Now as the present head of the house 
of Howlands, please have a little more dignity and 
wisdom. I think, Miss Campbell,—for I will call 
you by your accustomed name,—I think I must ask 
you to answer a few definite questions.” 

“Yes, sir.” The girl took another cigarette from 
her case, tapped the end of it absent-mindedly on the 
back of her hand, and then suddenly replaced it, 
and sat bolt upright. 


“I Am Angela!” 


109 

“I think,” she said, “that instead of questions, you 
would get at the truth quicker if you let me meet 
my mother. I think her reception and recognition 
of her own child would set your doubts at rest.” 

“You do not understand,” Esterbrook spoke 
gently, “Mrs. Howland is really ill,—not so much 
physically as mentally.” 

“The sight of me will cure her.” 

Edith Mills stared. A grudging admiration for 
this insistent personality filled her soul. She had 
thought that she, herself, was authoritative, domi¬ 
nating,—but she now felt less so than this straight 
little wisp of femininity. 

“But an interview could not take place without 
her physician’s sanction. You see, her reason hangs 
in the balance. A sudden shock might unseat it en¬ 
tirely and permanently.” 

“Is she—isn’t she—sane?” 

A look of fear in the anxious eyes gave Ester- 
brook the impression that she was afraid her great 
plan would fail. 

“Yes,—that is, she understands and responds to 
simple mental matters,—but she is incapable of con¬ 
centrated thought, or logical argument.” 

“The sight of me would restore her mind,” said 
the obstinate red lips. “Will you not try it ?” 

She spoke cajolingly, but Esterbrook steeled his 
heart against blandishment. 

“Why did you leave such important evidence as 
the little garments in Australia?” he asked. 

“When we left there it was at the beginning of 


110 Wheels Within Wheels 

the war. Miss Campbell desired to give her services 
as a nurse in France. We were there for four years, 
working in a Field Hospital. Miss Campbell did 
wonderful work. She had many medals and recog¬ 
nitions given her.” 

“You worked with her?” 

“Of course. I did what I could. Then, when she 
died, I wanted to go back to Australia to get the 
belongings we had left there. But I couldn’t manage 
to go,—and having opportunity to come to the 
States, I came.” 

“In what position ?” 

“I met an American family who were traveling in 
France. They asked me to come back here with 
them as governess to their two little children. I 
have been with them over a year,—I still hold the 
position.” 

“They know of this—er—claim of yours?” 

“No; I have not told them. I thought it wiser 
not to. But Mr. Esterbrook, I rest my claim on 
recognition by my mother,—or nurse. I learned,— 
also, from the newspaper reports,—that the nurse 
who took care of little Angela Howland is still 
here. She will know me.” 

“That will settle it, certainly,” said Esterbrook. 
“Miss Mills, won’t you bring Nurse Lane here ?” 


CHAPTER VIII 

The Mother Instinct 


M ISS MILLS returned with Nurse Lane. 

No inkling of the matter under consid¬ 
eration had been given to Lane, and as 
she entered the room in her stolid, heavy way, she 
glanced carelessly at the men there, and gave a look 
of little more interest to the strange girl who was 
present. 

“What is it?” she asked, addressing herself to 
Leonard Swift, who had been at some pains to teach 
her that he was the head of the house. 

“Do you know this young woman?” Swift said, 
with an indicative nod in the direction of Ida 
Holmes Campbell. 

“No, sir, I do not,” Lane returned, after a brief 
scrutiny. 

“Oh, Nurse, you do,” the girl exclaimed, in her 
soft, insinuating voice. “I’m your little, lost 
Angela.” 

“Not you!” Lane was almost contemptuous. 
“What do you mean by such talk ?” 

“That’s enough,” Swift returned. “If Nurse 
Lane does not recognize her—” 

“But give the girl a chance,” interrupted the law- 
111 


112 Wheels Within Wheels 

yer. “After all these years, the nurse would prob¬ 
ably not recognize the girl at a glance, but there may 
be certain points—” 

“You remember my oddly placed front teeth, 
don’t you, Nurse?” 

Again the red lips were parted in an exhibition 
of the separated teeth. 

“I remember that baby Angela had teeth a bit 
apart, like her mother before her. But that’s noth¬ 
ing,—many people have such. Why should I think 
this girl is my baby that is dead ? My baby,—that I 
saw in her little white casket!” 

“But you have been told the story? You know 
the child was taken out of the casket?” 

“Yes, Doctor AVery told me about it.” The 
woman was very grave. “But I saw that baby dead, 
—and she never came to life again. Some awful 
creatures may have taken that little body from its 
coffin, but it was a dead body.” 

“No, Nurse,” the girl spoke softly, almost in a 
whisper, “no, Nurse Lane, it was not a dead body, 
—it was the little living Angela, and I am that child. 
Grown up now, but the same little child you used to 
care for.” 

Lane took a step nearer the speaker. 

She took the girl’s face in her gaunt, wrinkled 
hands, and looked long and earnestly into the 'brown 
eyes. 

“No,” she said at last, “no, you are not Angela 
Howland,—and what’s more you know you are not. 
I see the lies in your face.” 


The Mother Instinct 113 

Turning on her heel, Lane left the room. 

There was a dead silence, even Swift said no 
word. 

Then the girl spoke. 

‘That woman does not want me to be Angela 
Howland. I do not know why, but she doesn’t. She 
is insincere, and she did not read falsehood in my 
eyes! She is a strange person,—and, she is not to 
be trusted.” 

“That line of talk won’t get you anywhere, Miss 
Campbell,” Swift said, less rudely than jocularly. 
He was no longer afraid of this girl, or of her claim 
to the estate he considered his own. He knew Nurse 
Lane’s words carried weight and it would be diffi¬ 
cult to persuade anybody to differ from her decision. 

Miss Campbell looked round the room. Was no 
one her friend? 

Austin Magee looked at her with a steady regard, 
but said nothing. 

Edith Mills’ expression was clearly hostile, and 
Swift was openly laughing at her. 

But James Esterbrook said, “I told you you 
should have a just hearing, Miss Campbell, and I 
shall do all I can to bring it about. I approve of 
your meeting Mrs. Howland. If she recognizes you 
as her child, it can have only a good effect on her. 
If she does not, surely there can be no harm done. 
If you will wait, I will send for Doctor Avery, and 
ask his permission for the meeting.” 

“Please,” said the girl, and then, without another 
word, she turned to the books on the table, selected 


114 Wheels Within Wheels 

one, and going over to a chair in the farthest corner 
of the room, sat down to read, with apparent un¬ 
concern. 

There was an embarrassed silence. Embarrass¬ 
ing, that is, to all except this queer girl, this aston¬ 
ishing claimant to a place in the household of How¬ 
lands. She sat, seemingly oblivious of the others, 
turning the pages of her book with quiet regularity, 
either absorbed in it or pretending to be so. 

There was a little desultory conversation, but al¬ 
most any remark seemed perfunctory, and the talk 
could not be casual with that listener so pervadingly 
present. 

“Here he comes,” Miss Campbell herself an¬ 
nounced, as the A'very motor car approached the 
house. 

And in another moment Doctor Avery was in the 
room with them all. 

“Good day, Doctor Avery,” Leonard Swift 
greeted him, and at once presenting the girl, he 
said, “I will introduce this young lady as Miss Ida 
Campbell, though she claims that is not her real 
name.” 

Doctor Avery looked at the girl sharply, for in¬ 
tuition gave him a hint of what was to come. 

“Yes, and what is your name, may I ask?” 

“Angela Howland,” the red lips replied, 'and a 
soft little hand was slipped into the doctor's great, 
capable paw. 

Surprised not so much at the statement as the 
assured air of the speaker, Doctor Avery held the 


The Mother Instinct 115 

girl’s hand while he closely scrutinized her counte¬ 
nance. 

“You do not resemble either Mr. or Mrs. Ralph 
Howland,” he said, at last. “Do you mean that you 
are their daughter, Angela?” 

“Yes; I was the child who was thought to have 
died of the sleeping sickness.” 

“Indeed.” The doctor was plainly incredulous, 
yet still open-minded. “Will you tell me your his¬ 
tory ?” 

“So far as I know it,” and a pretty smile disclosed 
the white front teeth, which this strange girl seemed 
to consider her passport to happiness. 

By this time they were seated, the doctor having 
cannily placed Miss Campbell where a strong light 
fell on her face. 

But apparently even the fierce light that beats 
upon a throne could not embarrass this self-pos¬ 
sessed person, and she met his curious gaze and his 
inquiries with equal composure. 

“My earliest memories,” the low, steady voice 
began, “are of my childhood days in Australia. I 
lived with Miss Jane Campbell, a middle-aged spin¬ 
ster, whom I called Auntie. She was very good to 
me, and I was a happy and contented little girl. I 
was properly educated, and when I grew old enough 
to understand, she told me how I had come to her.” 

“And of all poppycock stories, it is the most 
ridiculous one I ever heard!” Swift burst forth. 

“I’d like to hear it, then,” and the good doctor 
smiled kindly at the narrator. 


116 Wheels Within Wheels 

Encouragement was not needed, however, and 
without a glance at the supercilious Swift, the girl 
continued: 

“She told me that one time she was traveling on 
some railway in New England, and during the 
night, while she was absent from her own berth, 
some one placed in it a child of four or five years 
old. A baby girl, with golden curls and brown eyes. 
She assumed the baby had been put there by mis¬ 
take for some near-by berth and waited for the 
mother to claim her child. But no one did so. In 
the morning, neither conductor nor porter could give 
her any light on the subject, and, on reaching New 
York, she found herself in undisputed possession of 
the little one. 

“She then concluded that the child had been pur¬ 
posely abandoned and had been given to her to keep. 
She assumed the mother or perhaps a father or 
other guardian had been on the train and had 
watched her actions with the baby. As her minis¬ 
trations had been only of the kindest and pleasant¬ 
est description, she came to the conclusion that, sat¬ 
isfied the child was in good hands, it was left to be 
hers. 

“Miss Campbell was not averse to keeping the 
baby, indeed, she loved her at once, but she wanted 
a legal right to her,—and, too, she was by no fneans 
sure that her solution of the mystery was the right 
one. 

“So she tried every means to learn the truth. She 
watched for news in the papers of a lost or kid- 


The Mother Instinct 


117 


napped child, but there was none. She advertised 
herself, guardedly, for the parents of the baby. At 
last, she put the case in the hands of a private detec¬ 
tive, but no inkling of the truth could be learned.” 

“H’m,” said the doctor. “On what railroad was 
she traveling and near what station did she acquire 
this remarkable gift?” 

A quick flash of her eyes to his, showed that the 
girl quite appreciated the doubt and distrust in his 
tones. 

“She didn’t know,” was the quiet reply. “That is, 
she knew the railroad, it was the New York Central, 
but she knew none of the station stops.” 

“Perhaps she knew the hour,—you see, I am try¬ 
ing to ascertain if that baby could have been put on 
the train at Normandale. If not, it couldn’t have 
been Angela Howland.” 

“Couldn’t have been, anyway,” growled Swift, 
and Lawyer Esterbrook, who was listening atten¬ 
tively, shook his head hard. 

“Go on,”,said the doctor, and his inscrutable face 
was at least kindly tolerant. 

“Miss Campbell finally went back to her home in 
Australia, taking the child. We lived there for 
years, and during the war, Miss Campbell wanted 
greatly to help. She was a most wonderful woman, 
a grand, big-hearted one, and she went to France and 
served in a Field Hospital. I went, too, as a nurse, 
and we were there till the end of the war. It was 
in performance of her duties that Miss Campbell had 
an injury that resulted in her death, two years ago. 


118 Wheels Within Wheels 


“She left me her property, which, however, was 
not enough for me to live on, so I have now a 
position as governess in a New York family.” 

“All very interesting,” Swift said, “but let us get 
to the point. Your life history is of little impor¬ 
tance unless we consider your claim.” 

“The point is,” and the girl looked into the eyes 
of the puzzled physician, “that I believe myself to 
be Angela Howland. I believe somebody discovered 
that the child in the casket was not dead, and for 
some reason, mistaken or intentional, placed me on 
that train, which certainly went through Norman- 
dale.” 

“Through trains don't stop here,” said James 
Esterbrook, “but go on, Miss Campbell.” 

“At least, you have no reason to doubt the story 
Miss Jane Campbell told of finding me!” and the 
brown eyes flashed. 

“Pardon me,” said the lawyer, “I think we have 
no especial reason to believe it. I should say it's a 
pretty hard tale to believe.” 

“But why would she make up such a yarn ?” cried 
the girl. 

“She didn't,—you did!” declared Swift, bluntly. 

“Oh, I didn’t!” and two little hands clasped them¬ 
selves in earnestness. “It is just what Miss Camp¬ 
bell told me. It would be absurd to make up such 
a—” 

“It is absurd,” Doctor Avery murmured, “it is 
absurd,—and yet—” 

He peered into her face. 


119 


The Mother Instinct 

“Oh, do see a likeness, doctor!” she cried; “do 
see a resemblance to my father or mother,—for I 
am sure —sure I am Angela. Look at my teeth,—it 
was through that peculiarity that I found my way 
here.” 

“Yes,” Austin Magee corroborated, “Mr. How¬ 
land, in his anxiety to find his daughter, tried to 
trace her through the Dentists’ Journals, and I con¬ 
ducted the search. It is true that this young lady’s 
teeth are separated, like Mrs. Howland’s.” 

“And like Mary Howland’s mother before her,” 
mused the doctor. “Also the eye teeth are small and 
sharp,—truly, there is a remarkable resemblance, 
yet, that is not enough. I see no—or, almost no,— 
likeness in the face.” 

Again he stared at the girl, eagerly, as if anxious 
to find the truth. 

“But there are other proofs,” she urged. “I have 
the string of coral that I wore when—when I was— 
oh, you know! and the little garments that I wore 
when Miss Campbell found me are still carefully 
kept.” 

“Where?” 

“They are in storage, with Miss Campbell’s be¬ 
longings, in Australia.” 

“H’m,—pretty far away!” 

“Good idea, selecting Australia as the scene of 
your fairy story,” Swift said. His whole attitude 
was that of unbelief, but he also had an impatient 
air, as of one who wants to end a farce and have 
done with it. 


120 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Yes; but they can be procured, though it will 
take time,” the girl’s eyes were wistful. 

“Nurse Lane doesn’t recognize her,” put in Edith 
Mills, who was thrilled by the dramatic situation 
and greatly desired to take part in the controversy. 

“No?” asked Doctor Avery, his face falling. 
“That’s against it, then. I don’t recognize her my¬ 
self, but I am willing to admit a possibility,—that’s 
all I can say, a possibility. Seems to me the story 
is a straightforward one and could be true.” 

“How could it be true ?” asked Esterbrook. 
“Who in the world could get that baby out of her 
coffin and into a train in the middle of the night? 
Preposterous!” 

“But,” said Avery, “somebody did take that child 
out of that coffin. She couldn’t get out herself,— 
even granting that she woke from what I thought 
was the sleep of death. It is positive that the casket 
was empty when it was interred. Now, somebody 
was instrumental in getting the body out, dead or 
alive. So why denounce this girl as an impostor 
until we know more about it ?” 

“But,” said Swift, “even if that did happen, if 
somebody took the child from the casket, it was far 
more likely that there was merely a shifting of the 
little bodies. Stryker told me there were as .many 
as five or six children’s bodies in his rooms at once 
during that epidemic. For some reason or other, 
the bodies may have been changed about, or what 
is more likely, the wrong casket was attributed to 
Angela Howland, her nameplate put on an empty 


The Mother Instinct 121 

one by mistake, and the real Angela buried some- 
where else, with another nameplate.” 

Esterbrook nodded his head. “That’s doubtless 
the truth,” he said. “Much more believable than 
this trumped-up yarn. No, Miss Campbell, it’s in¬ 
genious, but we’ll have to have far more definite and 
conclusive proof than any you’ve yet offered.” 

“You can have it,” and the girl spoke very quietly, 
but to an attentive ear or eye, it was evident that 
she was about to play her trump card. “Let me be 
taken to my mother.” 

“It is the only thing to do,” and Doctor Avery 
rose at once. “It will be a final test. Mary How¬ 
land’s mind is disordered, but only to a slight de¬ 
gree. It is her memory that is affected rather than 
her reasoning powers. Therefore, she may not re¬ 
member her daughter, but I hold that her recogni¬ 
tion would be a very strong argument in favor of 
this girl’s claim.” 

The girl said nothing, but her eyes glinted with a 
suppressed eagerness as she looked from one to an¬ 
other. 

Esterbrook nodded in favor of the plan. Austin 
Magee was noncommittal, and indeed his opinion 
was not sought. 

Nor was that of Edith Mills, but careless of that, 
she cried out, “Splendid! That will settle it, of 
course. For no matter what is the state of Mrs. 
Howland’s brain, she would recognize her own 
daughter!” 

“Maybe not,” said Doctor AVery cautiously; 


122 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Nurse Lane didn't,—and suppose Miss Campbell’s 
story is true, suppose she is really Angela Howland, 
it is quite possible,—even likely, that Mrs. Howland 
will repudiate her.” 

“I’ll take the chance,” said the claimant, quietly. 
“Only make the experiment. If Mrs. Howland de¬ 
nies relationship, I shall make no further effort to 
establish my claim. That is, unless you, who have 
heard my story already believe it.” 

“Then let us go and try the case at once,” said 
the doctor. “We can’t all go. I will take Miss 
Campbell to Mrs. Howland’s room; you, Ester- 
brook follow, but remain in the hall, so you can hear 
and see, but your presence must not distract Mrs. 
Howland’s attention.” 

“I want more witnesses than that,” Swift de¬ 
creed. “If I’m to be supplanted, it shan’t be through 
any put up job on the part of you—” 

“Miss Mills, you accompany us,” Doctor Avery 
said, quietly, ignoring Swift’s implications. “You 
can report exactly as to Mrs. Howland’s behavior 
and your presence will not surprise her.” 

So the ones designated went upstairs, and Swift 
and Magee remained in the library. 

“Did you ever hear such a barefaced deception?” 
Swift exploded. “The nerve of that girl!” 

Magee said nothing, but he looked contempla¬ 
tively at Swift. 

“Don’t look like that,—as if you half believed it!” 
Swift stormed. “I dare say you have been sincere in 
your search, and that it was done at Ralph’s orders, 


The Mother Instinct 123 

but by heavens, if this ridiculous girl puts this thing 
over, I’ll take it out of you, somehow!” 

“Don’t threaten, Swift,—I had no hand in it, be¬ 
yond carrying out Mr. Howland’s plans.” 

“You say you didn’t—” but Magee deliberately 
walked out of the room, and Leonard Swift was left 
to fume by himself. 

Perhaps he was not unreasonable. For a man of 
his ambitions to fall heir to an immense property 
and then to have his ownership of it jeopardized by 
such a flimsy pretense at a claim as this girl was 
putting up was enough to dismay him. 

Upstairs, a parley ensued between Doctor Avery 
and Nurse Lane. 

“No, sir, I won’t let Mrs. Howland be upset by 
this absurd thing. I tell you, I won’t allow it!” 

“Since when is your authority greater than 
mine?” asked the doctor, amazed at Lane’s stub¬ 
bornness. 

“It isn’t in some things,—not if Mrs. Howland 
needs your advice or services. But she doesn’t, and 
I tell you she’s mighty unsettled in her mind to-day, 
and a shock like that—” 

“Hush, Nurse,—and get out of the way, we’re 
going in.” 

With a gentle but firm hand, Avery grasped her 
arm and urged her aside. Then, stepping back him¬ 
self, he directed Miss Campbell to go to his patient. 

Mary Howland sat quietly by a window, looking 
out on the lawn and gardens, now bereft of blos¬ 
soms, but still beautiful with their blue spruces and 


124 Wheels Within Wheels 

golden cedars. Robed in a white negligee of soft 
crepe, she twirled its tassels idly, turning her head 
as the sound of voices arose. 

Ida Campbell went toward her and, pausing in 
front of her, sank down on one knee, and, taking 
the thin white hands in her own, she said, softly: 

“Mother, I’ve come home. I’m Angela.” 

The watchers saw Mary Howland turn her eyes 
to the girl’s face, saw the expression of those eyes 
change successively from blank inquiry to surprise, 
to wonder, to delight. 

“My Angela ? my baby ? my daughter ?” she said, 
and her face moved nearer to that of the supplicat¬ 
ing girl. 

“Yes, your baby, grown now to be a great girl,— 
but still your baby ,—mother ” 

With a cry of ecstatic joy, Mary Howland drew 
the girl into her arms and held the bowed head 
against her hungry mother heart. 

“What does it mean?” she asked, in her most 
rational of tones. 

“Is that your daughter, Mary?” asked Doctor 
Avery, nonplused at the way things were going. 
Was his patient sane enough to decide this question? 

“Yes,—this is Angela,—my little Angela,—she 
says so,” and Mrs. Howland clasped the girl, closer 
as if she feared to lose her. “But I do not under¬ 
stand—my baby died—” 

“No, mother,—no, I didn’t die,—it was a mis¬ 
take,—I was only asleep. And for long years I 
couldn’t find you,—and now, here I am.” 


CHAPTER IX 

The Coral Necklace 


T HE listeners were differently affected by 
the scene. 

Doctor Avery, friend even more than 
physician to Mary Howland, was ready and willing 
to take the mother's recognition as proof positive. 

“And,” the good man thought to himself, “even 
though she isn’t really Angela, if Mary thinks she 
is, it may do her a whole lot of good, and where can 
be the harm?” 

Nurse Lane, however, was far from this way of 
thinking. 

“You’ve no right,” she told the doctor, “to im¬ 
pose on my poor lamb. That’s never her baby,— 
and you know it. That girl’s a born trickster, I can 
read her wicked little face! She somehow hatched 
this plan, and she’s cute enough to carry it through. 
But she must not be allowed to do it.” 

Ida Campbell looked at the nurse, who was at no 
pains to lower her voice, as she made known her 
opinions. 

“If mother knows me,” the girl said, calmly, “I 
don’t think it matters whether Nurse does or not. 
I am here to stay,—Lane can go or remain as she 
chooses.” 


125 


126 Wheels Within Wheels 

Lane gasped. This,—to her,—from an upstart, 
an impostor! It was unbelievable! 

“I will go,” she said, tossing her head in dudgeon. 
“If this chit remains here, I will go.” 

“Oh, now, Nursie, don’t decide too soon,” the 
girl smiled gayly at her. “There’s time enough to 
change your mind about me. Really, I’m not half a 
bad sort,—once you know me.” 

“Don’t be too sure about this matter, Miss Camp¬ 
bell,” the lawyer said, speaking very seriously. “The 
fact that a woman who is not responsible accepts 
your word, does not make us, who have reasoning 
minds, do so.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” and the 
glinting eyes turned full on him. 

“We’re going to have a conference,—where your 
presence will be required, and we’re going to get at 
the truth of your strange story. If we conclude 
that it may be true, we will then take up the ques¬ 
tion of your claim, but if we prove it false, there 
will be no place for you at Howlands.” 

“Don’t take her away,” cried Mary Howland, as 
Doctor Avery rose and beckoned the girl to accom¬ 
pany him. 

“Just for a little while,” the doctor soothed her. 
“She will come back soon.” 

“No, no! I won’t let her go. She is mine,—my 
baby, grown up to a lovely girl,—oh, Angela dear, 
how pretty you are!” 

The mother caressed the hand she still held, and 
the close observation of the physician showed him 


The Coral Necklace 127 

no untoward symptoms on the part of his patient. 
On the contrary the look in Mary Howland’s eyes 
was more nearly normal, more evidently sane than 
it had been since her husband’s death. 

But it proved an impossible task to take the girl 
away. 

Indeed, the insistence made Mary so nervously 
excited and so agitated that A'very decreed they 
must stay together for the present. 

“Have the conference up here, or take the two 
down to the library,” he directed. “But whoever or 
whatever this girl is, she has done a lot already for 
Mrs. Howland, and I insist on their remaining to¬ 
gether for a time.” 

So all went down to the library, and the men 
talked together quite as if the principals in this 
strange drama were not present. 

“First,” the lawyer said, speaking to the group 
generally, but especially to Leonard Swift, who was 
of course the one most affected by the outcome of 
the situation, “I want to say that the whole story 
this girl tells may be true. For, knowing that the 
casket supposed to contain the Howland child’s body 
was buried empty, the probability is that the child 
was taken from it,—either dead or alive. It seems 
to me, that if the baby came to life,—or, rather, 
awoke from the sleep of disease, that she would 
make some faint sound or stir, and any one hearing 
it would certainly open the casket. I think it quite 
possible that this occurred on the train. The casket 
was shipped to New York, en route for New Jersey. 


128 Wheels Within Wheels 

Suppose that while in the express car, the awaken¬ 
ing came,—suppose a brakeman or train-hand re¬ 
leased the little girl, it is within the possibilities that 
he put her in a berth in the sleeper. ,, 

“Not likely/’ said Doctor Avery, frowning in his 
deep thought, “but—oh, well, I suppose it is pos¬ 
sible.” 

“Why in the world would he do that ?” spoke up 
Edith Mills, who was enthralled with interest. 
“Why not tell the conductor,—or some one ?” 

“They’re a queer set, those ignorant trainmen,” 
the doctor said; “I’ve had to do with them. I really 
believe if that had happened, an ignorant, fright¬ 
ened, perhaps superstitious man might have done 
such a thing.” 

“Never!” declared Swift. “There’s no use try¬ 
ing to make up fantastic possibilities to fit a 
trumped-up story. The casket was buried empty 
because in the hurry Angela’s nameplate was put 
on the wrong one,—an empty one, and it was sent 
off with the others. The real body of the child 
being, of course, in some other casket,—that may 
have been sent elsewhere.” 

“Mr. Howland took that idea into consideration,” 
said Magee, “and he concluded it was not likely, as 
he himself was present when the nameplate was af¬ 
fixed.” 

“Might have been a mistake, all the same,” Swift 
insisted. 

“We can’t tackle the problem from that end,” 
Esterbrook declared. “What we have to do is to 


129 


The Coral Necklace 

prove or disprove the identity of Miss Campbell,— 
to prove or disprove her claim to be Angela How¬ 
land.” 

“Why was the name of Ida Holmes given you?” 
Miss Mills asked. She had rather a talent for ask¬ 
ing pertinent questions. 

For the first time the visitor looked disconcerted. 

“That is a point against me,” she said, but her 
brave little face was determined in its expression. 
She sat by Mary Howland, who was quiet and con¬ 
tented so long as the girl was by her. The sad eyes 
of the older woman, brightened a little by this new 
interest, traveled often over the face and figure of 
the girl, and each time Mary Howland nodded con¬ 
tentedly. Doctor Avery watched her and could 
form no opinion as to whether she really recognized 
her child, or was merely swayed by her desire to 
do so. 

“When Miss Campbell first saw me she asked 
my name.” 

“You remember this?” asked the doctor. 

“Not at all. I have no recollections of my first 
five years of life. Indeed, I remember nothing 
clearly until I was about six, living in Melbourne.” 

“Yet, according to your story, you told your name 
to the lady who befriended you?” 

“She told me I did,” was the quiet reply. “She 
said that when she asked my name I replied ‘Ida 
Holmes’ or ‘Ida Holm.’ Repeatedly she asked me 
but I always gave the same answer. In fact, she 
said, I said little else. Whatever she asked, I re- 


130 Wheels Within Wheels 

sponded ‘Ida. Holmes/ So she named me Ida 
Holmes Campbell.” 

‘'With a name as definite as that she should have 
been able to trace your parents,” said Miss Mills. 

“She tried. She wrote to or went to see every¬ 
body by the name of Holm or Holmes that she could 
find. But she could learn nothing, so at last she 
concluded that I had been purposely left with her.” 

“Of course,” Esterbrook said, “no amount of ad¬ 
vertising a lost child would lead to any information 
from the Howlands, for they supposed their child 
dead.” 

“Of course,” Avery agreed, “but I am willing to 
acknowledge that it is quite possible to believe a child 
dead with that treacherous deceptive disease when 
the child is only in a comatose sleep.” 

“Granted all that,” Leonard Swift said, impa¬ 
tiently, “that doesn’t go far toward proving that 
Miss Campbell is the Howland child.” 

“My mother’s love proves that,” and a glance of 
affection passed between the two. 

“Well, I’ve got to go,” said Doctor Avery, look¬ 
ing at his watch. “I don’t know what you’re going 
to do about all this, but I prescribe for my patient 
a few days at least of the society of this young 
lady. Whether she is Mary Howland’s daughter 
or not, she has a splendid effect on her. I’ve been 
watching, and I can tell you that this whole episode, 
however it turns out, will make,—has already made, 
—a change for the better in Mrs. Howland’s condi¬ 
tion. If she improves as rapidly as I anticipate, she 


The Coral Necklace 131 

will get so much better that her ideas and opinions 
will be sane and worthy of consideration,—though 
they are not quite that at present.” 

The truth of the doctor’s words could be seen 
by the least observant. A steadier light shone in 
Mrs. Howland’s eyes, a more rational tone pervaded 
her utterances, and a real mother smile came now 
and then to her pale lips. 

But Nurse Lane was evidently disturbed over 
something. 

“Ida Holmes,” she repeated, half aloud. “Ida 
Holm. Oh, if it should be!” 

“Did you ever know any one named that ?” asked 
Edith Mills, whose acute hearing had caught the 
words. 

“No,” and Lane glared at her, “I never did!” 

“It couldn’t have been my name!” Miss Campbell 
laughed, “but it may be I called myself that, as 
kiddies often assume names.” 

Again Lane gave a start and stared at the 
speaker. Then, shutting her thin lips in a straight 
line, she shook her head obstinately and said noth¬ 
ing. 

Leonard Swift spoke, 

“Miss Campbell, I want it distinctly understood 
that not only do I believe your story in no particular, 
but I also believe that it is pure fabrication on your 
part. I believe that you ingeniously planned it after 
reading of Mr. Howland’s death in the papers, and 
after learning from your dentist that your teeth 
might prove a factor in your favor. I say this to 


132 Wheels Within Wheels 

you plainly, for I want you to know just where I 
stand. Also, had I my way, I should ask you to 
leave Howlands and never appear here again. But 
since Doctor Avery has decreed that you shall stay 
with Mrs. Howland for a few days, I cannot forbid 
it. A'nd, I shall take the opportunity while you are 
here to prove your story false in every important 
particular, and to prove you an intentional im¬ 
postor.’’ 

Swift’s words were so coldly spoken, so positively 
meant, that Ida Campbell gasped. 

Then, giving him cold glance for cold glance, she 
said, “I am not surprised at your attitude, Mr. Swift, 
for I see you resent my intrusion on what you look 
on as your own rights. However, I accept your un¬ 
willing invitation to stay here for a time, and I shall 
do all I can to further the good doctor’s plans for 
restoring my—my mother’s health and reason. 
Furthermore, I shall welcome your investigation of 
my story, knowing that every probe you make can 
strike only the truth.” 

A smart little nod of her head in Swift’s direc¬ 
tion finished this speech, and then the girl turned to 
Mary Howland, saying, “Shall we go for a little 
stroll on the sun porch, dear?” 

It was not surprising that Mary Howland wel¬ 
comed the companionship of this bright young thing. 
She was so alert and alive, so quick to respond to 
impressions, so volatile as to seem almost electric, 
and her eager, avid little face showed perception and 
ready understanding. 


The Coral Necklace 


133 


She had a charming little air of expectancy, gave 
the impression of standing, tiptoe, on the verge of 
some new and thrilling interest or excitement. Her 
walk was quick, yet full of rhythm. Truly, she was: 

“A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, to waylay.” 

Mother and daughter, as they now called one an¬ 
other, went away together, and the men resumed 
their discussion. 

“We have very serious questions to consider,” 
Esterbrook began, “and I don’t know just where 
we’re coming out. I am convinced that the circum¬ 
stances of the death of Mr. Howland are,—at least, 
mysterious, and they must be looked into. We 
must find out what happened in this room the night 
of his death. I don’t think the detectives at work 
on the case will ever make much headway, and I 
advise a special detective. Then he can also investi¬ 
gate the claim of this girl.” 

“I will investigate that myself,” Leonard Swift 
declared. He seemed full of a new resolve and 
spoke with energy. “You know, Esterbrook, if 
that girl really was Angela Howland, I shouldn’t 
say a word, but merely surrender all claims of my 
own to the Howland property. But I know she is 
a fraud, a willful and wicked impostor. And I’m 
going to prove it. I think I see through the whole 
scheme, but I don’t want to explain this until I 
can take a run down to New York and interview 
those people she has been living with.” 


134 Wheels Within Wheels 

“I’ve seen them,” said Magee, “and they can tell 
nothing of her before she went to them.” 

“No?” and Swift’s glance was supercilious. 
“Perhaps I can learn something from them. Any¬ 
way, I mean to try. Now, Esterbrook, you go 
ahead with the investigation of Ralph’s death. I 
think myself there’s no real mystery about it,—I 
think it was a sort of stroke,—but since the doctors 
raise a question, you must do all you can to learn 
the truth. I’m going to start right in on this matter 
of the Campbell girl, and I shall go to New York 
to-morrow. Then we’ll see what we shall see.” 

“If you find out anything,” the lawyer said, “it 
may help us in our other detective work. For it 
would not surprise me to learn that this impersona¬ 
tion of Angela Howland is part of a deep laid plot 
that also involves the murder of Ralph Howland.” 

“Murder!” Magee exclaimed, “how could he have 
been murdered?” 

“It’s within the possibilities,” Esterbrook as¬ 
serted. “I don’t see just how, myself, but it is 
dawning on me that if he was murdered, the sudden 
appearance of a new heir to his property is part of 
the crime plot.” 

“I don’t believe that pretty little girl is a crim¬ 
inal,” and Edith Mills shook her decided head. 

“She may be merely an instrument in the hands 
of wily men. She may have been selected to play 
this part, because of her teeth, and her pretty man¬ 
ners and attractive effects. But not for a minute do 
I believe she is really the Howland child.” 


The Coral Necklace 


135 


“Nor I,” agreed Swift. “Yet I can’t think she 
planned the scheme. There’s a master mind behind 
her that arranged every detail. But I’ll know more 
when I get back from New York than I do now.” 

Of course, owing to the doctor’s orders that Miss 
Campbell, as she was called by all but Mary How¬ 
land, should remain at the house for a few days, 
the girl was domiciled there. She was given the 
room that Sally Peters had occupied, and she tele¬ 
phoned to her employers in New York, asking that 
a suitcase of her clothing be despatched to her at 
once. 

To say she made herself at home would be put¬ 
ting it mildly. She fairly melted into the family 
and fitted into her niche as if she really belonged. 

No one could help liking her, yet no one believed 
in her. 

Except for Mrs. Howland, every one held the 
strongest doubt as to her identity. 

“She may be the right one,” Magee said to the' 
lawyer. “I can’t help thinking there are arguments 
in her favor.” 

“Not arguments,” said the other; “but there is a 
possibility. If the Howland baby left that casket 
alive, there’s a chance that this is the girl. And I 
will say that once in a while I catch a fleeting smile 
on her face that reminds me of Mr. Howland.” 

“I can’t see any resemblance,” Magee said, 
thoughtfully, “but I’ve sometimes noticed a tone or 
inflection of her voice that sounded like Mr. How¬ 
land.” 


136 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Nonsense!” and Edith Mills flouted their ideas, 
“there’s no resemblance at all. But that’s no argu¬ 
ment, either. I’m not the least mite like my mother 
or father either. Lots of people aren’t.” 

“What do you think of her, Edith?” Swift asked, 
suddenly. 

The big gray eyes looked at him, and into their 
depths came a hint of fear. Was he interested in 
the girl in spite of his scorn of her ? 

Edith Mills’ heart seemed to stand still. Deter¬ 
mined herself to capture Swift, if she could, she 
was instantly jealous of his possible interest in this 
new beauty. 

“She’s all right,” she said, at last, for she was 
far too canny to disparage another girl. “Pretty 
and all that. But a terror,—if you ask me.” 

“I do ask you,” and Esterbrook smiled. “What 
do you mean by a terror ?” 

“Oh, she’s deep and treacherous and clever and— 
why, she’d pull the wool over the eyes of any man.” 

“Not over mine,” and Leonard Swift looked 
stern. “I’m going to show her up in her true colors, 
and I’m going to do it quick.” 

The next day Swift made his trip to New York, 
leaving early in the morning and not returning until 
after dinner. By telephone he had summoned Doc¬ 
tor Avery and the lawyer, and by nine o’clock they 
were again assembled in the library. 

“I have proved my case,” Swift said, abruptly, 
“at least to my own satisfaction. I am ready to 
show that the girl is an impostor, but I want to tell 


The Coral Necklace 137 

the details in her presence, and you can all note her 
actions on hearing what I have to say. Edith, go 
and get her, will you ?” 

Miss Mills left the room, and Doctor Avery said, 
anxiously, “Don’t be too hard on her, Swift. Some¬ 
how I feel she is not the principal in this matter.” 

“If she isn’t, I know who is,” and Swift’s 
look boded ill for the one he had in mind. 

The two girls came in together. Ida, looking very 
lovely in a little white house gown that had arrived 
just in time for dinner. 

A glance round the room foreboded disaster, and 
her smiling face grew grave. 

Yet with utmost composure, she included all in a 
nod of greeting, then, choosing a seat, she reached 
across the table for a cigarette, which she lighted 
with deliberation. As no one spoke, she turned her 
glance to Leonard Swift, and said lightly, “You sent 
for me, Mr. Swift?” 

“Yes,” he said, exasperated beyond measure at 
her nonchalance. He would have preferred her to 
be in a nervous state. 

“I sent for you, Miss Campbell, to tell you that I 
have learned all about you—” 

“Good! Tell it, please, I’m sure I don’t know all 
about myself.” 

“I will. I’ve been to see the people where you’re 
employed as governess.” 

“The Harrisons. Yes?” She flicked her ash on 
the rug and favored Swift with a half-amused glance 
that irritated him very much. 


138 Wheels Within Wheels 

“And they told me they knew nothing of you ex¬ 
cept what you had told them yourself.” 

“Quite true. How could they know anything 
more than that?” 

“But I found some one who knew something, and 
that is the Harrisons’ chauffeur.” 

Miss Campbell’s eyes narrowed a trifle, but she 
said nothing. 

“Your coral necklace, Miss Campbell, that you de¬ 
clare is the one Miss Jane Campbell took from the 
neck of the child she found,—where did you get it?” 

“I—I brought it from Australia,—of course.” 

“You did nothing of the sort. You bought it in 
New York the day before you came up here,—the 
day before yesterday.” 

“How do you know ?” the words were little more 
than a whisper. 

“Because the Harrisons’ chauffeur took you on 
a shopping trip. You visited three jewelry stores 
and from the last one you returned to the car with 
a small parcel. I visited those same three stores, 
and learned that in each one you looked at coral 
necklaces, asking for a particular style,—and, in 
the last of the three stores you bought one.” 

Ida Campbell’s face was a study. Baffled, per¬ 
plexed, despairing, she turned to Austin Magee, 

“What shall I do?” she said. 

“You may well ask him,” Swift exclaimed. “He 
is in the plot, too! He visited Miss Campbell at 
the Harrisons several times. The plot is his as well 
as hers.” 


CHAPTER X 

The Bit of Glass 


E STERBROOK looked at the girl in perplexity. 
Could she really be the instigator of a plot 
that would, if successful, put her in posses¬ 
sion of the Howland fortune? Or, could she even 
be a willing aid to such a plot, if it were managed 
by older and more skillful hands ? 

She looked so far removed from all such trick¬ 
ery,—and yet, as the lawyer scanned her face closely, 
he had to admit to himself that there was an effect 
of sophistication, of clever ability, that might mean 
a power for wrongdoing as well as for right. 

After her sudden appeal to Magee, Ida Campbell 
said nothing, but it was plain to be seen she was 
thinking deeply. Her eyes flew from one watching 
face to another; she paid little attention to Magee 
and finally concentrated her regard on Doctor 
Avery. 

But Austin Magee responded to her question. 
“There’s but one thing to do, Miss Campbell,” 
he said, and his tone was colorless, “tell the exact 
truth.” 

“Yes, that’s the best as well as the cleverest 
course,” said Swift, and he watched the secretary 
closely. 


140 Wheels Within Wheels 


But nothing could be learned from Magee that 
that astute person did not choose to tell. He sat 
quietly, looking almost uninterested,—though Swift 
knew him well enough to be sure that this portended 
especial interest in the proceedings. 

“Yes, tell the truth, Miss Campbell,” urged the 
lawyer. “Did you buy that coral necklace in a New 
York shop?” 

“Yes, I did,” and the girl leaned a trifle forward, 
with an air that seemed confidential. “I did, and 
I’ll tell you why. My story is perfectly true,—Miss 
Campbell did keep the necklace the baby wore, and 
she gave it to me,—in Australia. When we went 
to France I did not take it along, as we expected 
to go back to Melbourne. But after Miss Campbell 
died, I couldn’t go back there alone, so I came to 
New York. Then, when I learned all about this 
matter up here, and when I became convinced that 
I am the missing Angela,—I knew I should need 
the necklace for proof. And, as I couldn’t get it 
from Australia very well,—I thought it a good plan 
to buy one exactly like it. That’s how it happened.” 

She sat back, with a satisfied little nod, as if she 
had given a perfectly satisfactory explanation of 
the matter. 

She was in a tall-backed chair, with large carved 
arms, and except that her little hands gripped the 
carving tightly, she showed no fear or embarrass¬ 
ment. Her piquant face turned with a bird-like 
alertness from one to another. 

If looking for sympathy, she must have been dis- 


The Bit of Glass 141 

appointed. The lawyer regarded her coldly; Swift 
looked at her with contempt. Edith Mills showed 
active curiosity,—she had never seen a girl like this 
before. 

Doctor Avery frowned in perplexity, yet his wise 
old face showed a kindly interest and honest doubt.- 

Austin Magee, impassive of countenance, began to 
speak. 

“Mr. Swift charges me with being in a plot. But 
plot is an ill-chosen word. It is not a plot, this en¬ 
deavor of mine to prove that Miss Campbell is 
Angela Howland. Myself, I believe she is. But it 
must be proved. As you know, Mr. Howland had 
the dentists of the whole country on the look-out for 
a girl with separated front teeth. While there are 
many such cases, not many answer to the further 
requirements of being about twenty years old and 
being ignorant of parentage and relatives. Then, 
when you add to this the story Miss Campbell tells 
of her being found, I think we must admit it all fits 
in too well to be mere coincidence.” 

“Far too well!” exclaimed Swift. “Only a pre¬ 
conceived and carefully worked-out plot could fit in 
as well as that.” 

“Yet it is not a plot,” Magee reiterated, patiently. 
“Mr. Howland knew about it,—that is, he knew all 
I could tell him, up to the night he died,—and he 
directed me to go ahead and investigate it as quickly 
as I could. These directions I followed, even after 
he was no longer here to give me orders.” 

“And you adroitly arranged matters so it should 


142 Wheels Within Wheels 

all seem plausible/’ Swift went on. “And you went 
to see Miss Campbell, in New York,—several times, 
—and between you, you fixed up this scheme—” 

“I object to the words scheme or plot, and I must 
request you, Mr. Swift, not to use them. Yes, I 
did go to see Miss Campbell at the home of the 
Harrisons, where she is governess, and what she 
had to tell me was so strangely plausible and even 
probable that I knew she must come here and lay 
her claim before you. Now, it is for you, Mr. Ester- 
brook, to express an opinion/’ 

“I’m sorry to say,” the lawyer began, slowly, 
“that I can’t see anything in it.” 

And then, at sight of the sudden consternation on 
the eager face of Ida Campbell, the somewhat sus¬ 
ceptible man modified his statement. 

“Yet,” he continued, “there may be,—yes, there 
well may be. But how to get at it,—there’s the 
thing! Proof ? that’s what we want. I thought we 
had it,—in the coral necklace,—but, my dear Miss 
Campbell, you can’t expect us to take in that yarn 
about leaving the real one in Australia and putting 
over a fake one on us! You can’t, now,—really!” 

“But it’s true,” and the girl’s eyes met his stead¬ 
ily. “It’s true,—and I didn’t mean exactly to fake 
it. I meant to tell you that this necklace I have, is— 
is just like the one in Australia. Just like it, you 
know. And, if you’d sum up the things in my 
favor,—instead of counting those against me,— 
you’d see what a lot there are! For I have the neck- 


The Bit of Glass 143 

lace,—in Melbourne, and also the baby clothes,— 
which mother or nurse would recognize at once.” 

“Can’t you get those ?” asked Avery, bluntly. 

“I don’t see how I can,—except by going there 
myself. They’re in a trunk, in storage. I don’t 
suppose the storage company would let any agent 
get the things out,—do you ?” 

“An agent couldn’t get the things,—because the 
things aren’t there!” Swift said, almost brutally. 
“For one, I’m fed up with this foolishness! I refuse 
to consider this girl’s claim in any way. I demand 
that it be dismissed and never referred to again. 
If Doctor Avery thinks her presence so beneficial to 
Mrs. Howland, let her be employed as companion or 
nurse,—or adopted as a daughter. Let Mary How¬ 
land have the girl with her in any relation she sees 
fit, except that of a real daughter. That I declare 
she is not, and I refuse to have the controversy pro¬ 
longed.” 

“Oh, come now,” Esterbrook said, “you can’t toss 
it off that way,—it’s gone too far. There are some 
points that must be considered. For instance, I 
don’t believe Miss Campbell made up the whole story 
about her advent on the train. About Miss Jane 
Campbell finding her. How would she. know where 
the incident occurred?” 

“The whole story has been in all the papers,” 
Swift said; “it was told with sufficient data for this 
cock-and-bull yarn to be made up. And with a little 
assistance from one who knew all the details,” Swift 


144 Wheels Within Wheels 

gave an indicative glance at Magee, “it was an easy 
matter for the girl to compose her little speech !” 

“Look here, Swift,” and Magee’s voice was even 
but stern, “I’ve stood all of that I’m going to. I 
assert that all I have done in the matter of Miss 
Campbell’s claim was done at the express and defi¬ 
nite orders of Mr. Howland. The orders given be¬ 
fore he died have been carried out since. The story 
Miss Campbell told was so spontaneous, so straight¬ 
forward and so convincing that I was sufficiently im¬ 
pressed to believe it might be true. But, whether 
she is or is not Angela Howland, I must insist that 
Miss Campbell’s story be taken in good faith and 
investigated with open-minded justice.” 

Swift said nothing, but his eyes showed a new 
comprehension as he looked quizzically at Magee. 
They said as plainly as words could do, “Bowled 
over!” 

“Go on, Miss Campbell,” Esterbrook said, in a 
kindly manner, “you were enumerating your 
claims.” 

“Yes; I hold that as Mr. Magee has said, the 
formation of my front teeth is an argument. I hold 
that the story told me by Miss Jane is an argument, 
and I hold that most of all, my mother’s recognition 
of me, is proof positive.” 

“Mrs. Howland is not responsible,” began Swift, 
but Doctor Avery interrupted. “She may not be, 
but that in no way interferes with her recognition of 
her own child. I’ve had wide experience and never 


The Bit of Glass 145 

have I known a mother to claim as her own a child 
that was not hers.” 

“Does your experience in this particular line in¬ 
clude mothers whose brains are affected?” Swift 
asked, pointedly. 

And Doctor Avery was obliged to answer no. 

“That strikes that out,” declared Swift, trium¬ 
phantly. “Oh, you people needn’t all look at me as 
if I were over-insistent. I’m not, but I realize that 
this girl has you,—some of you, under a spell,—and 
I must look out for my rights,—or be a victim of 
gross injustice.” 

“It is justice we are seeking,” the lawyer said, 
“and only that. Go on, Miss Campbell, is there 
anything further?” 

“Only that, since I have known Mrs. Howland,— 
little more than twenty-four hours, I have been every 
moment more impressed with the fact that she is 
my mother. I am every moment more sure that I 
am her daughter,—and she feels the same.” 

“If the girl would say anything believable,—” 
Swift objected. “If she could prove anything! But 
this feeling of relationship—you must admit, if she 
is an impostor, that is the thing she would say!” 

And they all saw the truth of this. 

“Here’s another thing,” Ida blazed forth sud¬ 
denly. “Nurse Lane knows me. She knows I am 
Angela. Why she denies it,—I am not sure, but I 
think I know. However, Nurse Lane knows I am 
Angela,—and she knows it because,”—the hazel 
eyes were very grave, and the scarlet lips quivered 


146 Wheels Within Wheels 

a little,—“because she knows why I gave my name 
as Ida Holmes! I mean, why I gave my name when 
Miss Campbell first asked me, as that. Why didn’t 
I say Angela? Or Angela Howland? No, I said 
Ida Holmes,—or Ida Holm. And Lane knows 
why.” 

“How do you know she does?” queried the 
lawyer. 

“Because when she heard that part of my story, 
she gave a start, and she repeated the words,—she 
said, Ida Holm! If it should be!’ That’s what 
she said.” 

“And what do you think she meant?” 

“I can’t imagine”—the arched eyebrows drew 
themselves together—“but it must be that in play I 
called myself that. I know some children do. A 
five-year-old in the Harrison family always calls 
herself Jenny Wren. Children take such odd fan¬ 
cies. And,—if I were making up this story,” the 
speaker shook a little pinky forefinger at the listen¬ 
ing lawyer, “if I were making it up, do you suppose 
I would be so foolish as to say I told my benefactor 
that my name was Ida Holmes? No, if I were 
fabricating, I’d be a little too shrewd for that!” 

She scored a point. 

True enough, if she made up this whole thing, 
why drag in the Ida Holmes name at all ? 

Esterbrook voiced this point, and Swift said, 
shortly, “Because her name really is Ida Holmes, 
and she had to explain it somehow.” 

“Not at all,” said Magee, accurately. “Granted 


The Bit of Glass 147 

she has been known all her life as Ida Holmes Camp¬ 
bell, she would know that to say the baby foundling 
first used that name would militate against her being 
Angela Howland.” 

“Then, looking at it the other way,” Swift took 
up the challenge, “if she were Angela Howland, she 
would have given that as her name. A child of five 
is old enough to tell her name.” 

“And that’s just it,” Ida cried, “I didn’t,—and 1 
don’t know why I didn’t,—but Nurse Lane knows. 
Ask her.” 

To follow this up at once, Lane was sent for. 

She came, and it was easily seen she came un¬ 
willingly. 

“What do you want ?” she asked, ungraciously, as 
she came in. 

“We want your testimony, Nurse,” Ida said, 
speaking gently. “You know why the baby Angela 
called herself Ida Holmes—” 

“She didn’t! She called herself ‘Andy.’ That 
was as near as she could come to Angela. Or 
rather, it was what she said when she first began 
to talk, and the nickname stuck to her. We often 
called her Andy.” 

“Ah,” said Swift, “then it would seem when 
Miss Campbell asked the little girl her name she 
would have said Andy—or Andy Howland.” 

“But she didn’t!” Ida exclaimed, “she said Ida 
Holmes,—and Lane knows why! I insist upon 
that!” 

“I know nothing about it,” the woman said, sul- 


148 Wheels Within Wheels 

lenly. But she dropped her eyes and was obviously 
embarrassed. 

“You do,” and Ida spoke accusingly. “Look me 
in the eyes, Nurse, and tell me you don’t know what 
that name means.” 

Nurse Lane raised her eyes to meet the steady 
gaze of the girl, but quickly looked aside as she re¬ 
iterated, mumblingly, “I don’t know any Ida Holm, 
I tell you. I never heard of such a person.” 

“She does,” and Ida Campbell nodded her head 
slowly. “She may not know any such person, for 
it may be an imaginary one, or a name out of a 
story book, but that Ida Holmes has a real signifi¬ 
cance for Lane I am positive. Why did you say 
‘Ida Holm! If it should be!’ the first time you heard 
me say the name ?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did. And I shall find out why. There’s 
no use asking Lane further, she will continue to deny 
it. But I’m going to find out what she knows about 
it, and I am going to prove my own identity. And, 
what is more, I’m going to find out who killed Ralph 
Howland,—my father.” 

“Then I must ask you, Miss Campbell,” Swift’s 
tone was scornful, “to pursue your investigations by 
yourself. If you are retained here as companion to 
Mrs. Howland, I want your position in the house¬ 
hold strictly defined, and, I may add, that it will 
not include unbidden access to this room.” 

“Then,” and Ida Campbell rose suddenly and 
stepped across the room to where Leonard Swift 


The Bit of Glass 


149 


sat at the great desk that had been Ralph Howland’s, 
“then I will take this opportunity to collect a little bit 
of evidence.” 

With quick movements, she picked up something 
from the desk, something tiny, invisible to the 
others, and, selecting an envelope from the stationery 
rack, she carefully inserted her finding in it and by 
a touch of her rosy tongue-tip, she sealed the en¬ 
velope and returned to her seat. 

“What did you take?” Swift asked, angrily. 

“It is not for you, it is for the detective,” she 
replied. “When will he be here again?” 

“You shall not take anything from my desk! 
Give me that envelope!” Swift fairly stormed at 
her. 

“No, I will not give it to you. I will give it to 
the detective,—or to Doctor Avery.” 

“Very well, my child,” the mystified doctor spoke 
kindly, “give it to me, then.” 

Carefully the girl opened the envelope, and dis¬ 
closed a minute fragment of glass,—two or three of 
them. Mere specks they were, two slender shards, 
and a round bit, perhaps one-eighth of an inch across. 

The round piece had jagged edges and Doctor 
Avery said at once. “That’s the thing that made the 
cut on Ralph Howland’s cheek! The tiny scar was 
just the size and shape of that. His face fell on 
that bit of glass!” 

“And the glass stayed here all this time!” ex¬ 
claimed Swift. “Incredible!” 

“No,” said Magee, “the detectives left orders not 


150 Wheels Within Wheels 

to dust or disturb the desk. But I think they had 
given up hope of finding any evidence. How did 
you happen to see that, Miss Campbell ?” 

“A ray of light struck it, and I noticed the glitter,” 
she said, simply. “What do you make of it, 
doctor?” 

“I begin to think Ralph Howland was murdered,” 
Avery said, gravely. “And by a diabolically clever 
method.” 

“Explain, won’t you?” said Esterbrook. 

“This piece of glass,” Avery began, “is the end of 
a tiny tube that has contained some volatile com¬ 
pound. You are all familiar with the little tubes of 
smelling salts, that ladies carry with them, in case 
of faintness?” 

“Yes, I know,” said Edith Mills. “Little things 
wrapped in cotton in a silk case,—and you break 
one and get a whiff of scented ammonia,—or some¬ 
thing like that.” 

“Yes, that is what I mean. Now Howland 
wouldn’t be apt to have those about, would he?” 

“No,” Miss Mills declared. “Not he.” 

“And, too,” the doctor continued, “I think I can 
detect the presence of mercury and a trace of pow¬ 
der that means,—oh, there is no doubt about it. 
It explains Mason’s belief. I am sure now that 
Howland was killed and this is the instrument,— 
or a piece of it. This tiny tube contained either 
cyanogen or hydrocyanic acid, a single breath of 
which would cause instant death. And, moreover, 
would leave no trace. And, again, I know that if 


The Bit of Glass 


151 


this is true, if Ralph was killed this way, I know 
that in the matter of the autopsy, there would be a 
single whiff of the odor of prussic acid, and no 
more. That is what Doctor Mason noticed, though 
I happened to miss it.” 

“All this is most important,” said Leonard Swift, 
regarding the doctor gravely. “It means we must 
find the murderer and bring him to justice. I feared 
it was a case of murder, but I could imagine no 
means that could have been used. Now you’ve dis¬ 
covered the means, there is immediate work to be 
done. Whoever killed my cousin must suffer the 
penalty.” 

“If we can catch him,” said Esterbrook. 

“That’s work for a detective,” Swift said. 

“And hard work, too,” Magee declared. “It’s 
over two weeks since the crime was committed,— 
pretty late to look for clews.” 

Leonard Swift was studying Magee’s face. 

“I remember you were very anxious to be execu¬ 
tor of Ralph’s will, Mr. Magee,” he said, at last. 

Magee flushed. 

“You put it queerly,” he returned. “Mr. How¬ 
land asked me to be his executor, and I consented.” 

“Oh, come now, didn’t you first suggest it to 
him ?” 

“I’m not sure. We were discussing the matter 
and it was arranged that I should be executor.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I thought Ralph told 
me you insisted upon it,—but it’s of no conse¬ 
quence.” 


152 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Doctor Avery—” Ida Campbell turned a troubled 
face to the old man—“is there any reason to be¬ 
lieve,—is there the slightest chance that Mrs. How¬ 
land,—that my mother, in her dementia, could have 
done this thing ?” 

“Bless my soul, no!” cried the startled doctor. 
“How could she? I don’t say but what she was 
unsettled enough that night not to know what she 
was about,—but how could she get this sort of 
thing,—this cyanogen capsule?” 

“She has them filled with lavender salts,” Edith 
Mills informed them. The stenographer was sit¬ 
ting, wide-eyed and breathless, listening to the sur¬ 
prising disclosures. 

“Of course,” said the doctor, impatiently, “I know 
that. But she couldn’t get one with this poison gas 
in it to save her life.” 

“That’s where our investigation must begin,” said 
Swift, thoughtfully. “Who could get such a thing? 
It is not, I should say, easily procurable. Miss 
Campbell, how did you recognize that bit of glass so 
quickly ?” 

“In the hospital, in France, we were familiar with 
many such things,” the girl replied. “The chemists 
over there made many little inventions like that.” 

“And you brought some over here?” asked Swift, 
looking at her. 

“No, I didn’t. I brought only the knowledge and 
memory of them.” 

The girl seemed about to say more, then stopped 
herself. 


The Bit of Glass 


153 


“Well, you are doubtless the only person present 
who knew of the existence of such a thing. I think 
you spotted that bit of glass rather quickly.” 

“Meaning that I had a hand in my father’s 
death?” The words were quietly spoken, but a glint 
came into the hazel eyes. 


CHAPTER XI 

“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 

(C t | ^ELL me more about my childhood,” the 
girl begged, as she walked with Mary 
Howland through the rose garden and on 
toward the orchard. 

The rose bushes were gaunt and bare, not yet 
swathed in their winter straw. But the well-kept 
paths were attractive, and the view across the 
autumn landscape was picturesque and pleasing. 

“You were the darlingest baby,” Mrs. Howland 
said, ever ready to talk on this subject. “Your 
curls were golden then,—they’re a lovely brown now, 
dear, but then they were pure gold. And your little 
round face was rosy and sweet.” 

“What did I call you?” 

“ ‘Mudda.’ You couldn’t say mother, and the 
way you said ‘mudda’ was adorable.” 

“I was a pretty big girl to talk so crooked at five 
years old, wasn’t I ?” 

“One reason was, we never corrected you. Your 
father and I thought it so cunning and attractive 
we rather encouraged it. And you had a funny 
little way of using plurals wrong. You always 
said, T want milks,’ or T want my baths,’ or T want 
to go walks.’ You would say, ‘P’ease put on my 
154 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 155 

hats and my coats/ as if you wore several of each! 
Oh, you were an angel baby,—but now I have you 
back, I find you are an angel daughter still,—my 
Angela.” 

“You feel that,—don’t you, mother? You feel 
sure I really belong to you?” 

“Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh. Yes, 
dear, I am sure. If only your father could have 
lived to see this day.” 

“Did he love me as much as you did ?” 

“Oh, yes. But, of course, men are not quite so 
foolishly demonstrative. I was always petting you 
and fondling you. Your father rarely kissed you, 
but I have seen him look at you with such pride and 
admiration that I knew he adored you fully as much 
as I did.” 

“Do you think if he were here, he would feel 
as you do? That I am really Angela?” 

“I’m sure he would. He couldn’t help it. I note 
new proofs every day. I see little things,—little 
traits of character, that remind me of him, or of my¬ 
self. Yes, sweetheart, you are Angela.” 

“But I can’t prove it.” 

“No; but that doesn’t matter. Let us go away 
and live by ourselves, somewhere.” 

It was thus that Mary Howland’s reason, though 
restored greatly, was still warped in some ways. 

Content in her belief in her child’s identity, satis¬ 
fied merely to have her daughter with her, she cared 
nothing whether they remained at Howlands or 
moved to some other home. 


156 Wheels Within Wheels 

Doctor Avery favored a change, thinking it would 
completely restore Mary’s mental balance to get 
away from the home of sad memories. 

But Angela wanted to stay at Howlands, She 
declared it was not only her home, but her heritage. 
She vowed she would yet make good her claim and 
establish herself as the head of the house of How¬ 
land, and owner of the entire estate. 

Leonard Swift scoffed at the idea, but in his heart 
he felt a bit uneasy, lest this indomitable young 
spirit should yet keep her word. 

“Why is Nurse Lane so down on me, mother?” 
Atigela asked, as, arm in arm, they walked along to 
the orchard. 

“Only jealousy, dear. She is uncertain whether 
you are really you or not; but, aside from that, she 
is of a fearfully jealous nature, and she can’t bear 
to see me turn to you for little offices or favors 
instead of to her. It is silly,—foolish,—but Lane 
is like that. She is jealous of Etta, of the doctor, of 
any one who seems to mean anything to me. Don’t 
mind her.” 

“But I do mind her. I think I might prove my 
claim if she’d come over to our side. Can’t you in¬ 
fluence her, mother ?” 

“I, dear? No. Don’t you understand? The 
more I’d ask her to accept you the more she’d hold 
out against you.” 

“Even if she believes in me? Oh, mother, could 
Lane be so cruel as to deny my identity when she 
herself believes in it?” 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 157 

“She could, indeed, my dear. Lane is a stubborn, 
insistent old thing. And freakish. She adored you 
as a baby, yet, even then, she was jealous of you. 
Don’t bother about Lane, Angela. Leave her out of 
it. She can’t take you away from me,—and that is 
all I care about.” 

“Darling mother”—and Angela stopped in the 
path to kiss her—“no one shall ever do that. If I 
can’t make good my claim to Howlands,—I’ll still 
stay with you, wherever we may be.” 

The girl’s eyes wandered across the wide acres of 
the estate on to the village, the valley and the dis¬ 
tant hills beyond. 

No object that she saw, no house, no tree, no 
hillside view stirred in her mind the least remem¬ 
brance. For anything she could recognize this might 
be her first sight of these things. 

Was it? 

She wondered. 

They came to the orchard. It was her first visit, 
and Angela expressed surprise and delight at the 
large number of fruit trees, and their fine condi¬ 
tion. 

“Yes, the gardeners have always felt a pride in 
the orchard,” Mary Howland said. “See this great 
ring of trees. Almost a perfect circle.” 

“A fairy ring!” Angela cried. “This is where 
the fairies dance on Midsummer Eve.” 

“Yes. That’s what we told you when you were 
a little girl.” 

“Oh, did you,—did you, mother? Then that’s 


158 Wheels Within Wheels 

a proof!” and the girl’s eyes shone. “Why, that 
shows I remember.” 

“Yes,” Mary Howland’s tone was indifferent. 
She had no interest in proving that the girl beside 
her was her daughter. She knew. That was enough 
for her. 

But not enough for others. And, especially, not 
enough for Leonard Swift. 

That very evening he called Miss Campbell, as she 
was known to all but Mary, to the library. 

“This matter has got to be settled,” he said, 
sternly, almost roughly. “I think, since Mrs. How¬ 
land is so attached to you, it would be best for you 
two to go somewhere and live together. But I want 
no further nonsense about your claims to inheritance 
here, and I want you to sign some sort of a quit¬ 
claim paper—” 

“Which I refuse to do.” Ida Campbell faced him 
calmly. 

“Then, I’m sorry, but you will be forced, by law, 
to do it.” 

“Indeed!” The tone was ironical. “Just what law 
will make me do that ?” 

As Swift’s mention of a law was a mere threat, 
he said, a little lamely, “I don’t know legal lore 
enough to tell you that, but I do know that your 
imposture cannot go on.” He turned on her, almost 
fiercely. “You know you’re a fraud! You know 
it! You and Magee made up the scheme between 
you, and you can’t deny that! Now, will you go, 
before I expose you both,—there is a grave penalty 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 159 

for imposture,—or shall I be obliged to show you 
up?” 

“It isn’t so,” but Ida Campbell shrank as if from 
a blow. “I don't know that I am a fraud,—I am 
not sure that I am an impostor! You shan’t talk to 
me like that! Oh, have I no friends here?” 

“Only Mrs. Howland,” Swift said, and went on, 
cruelly, “and she is insane.” 

“She isn’t insane! She is perfectly rational—” 

“On some subjects, yes. But her mind is far from 
clear on other matters, and her word in your favor 
would have no weight in a court of law.” 

“A court of law!” Ida breathed the words, and 
her face went white. 

“Of course. Unless you give up your scheme, I 
shall take the matter into court, you will be tried 
as an impostor, and your sentence will be no light 
one!” 

“Oh, stop! Don’t!” the poor child put her hands 
over her ears. “What shall I do? I want a friend!” 

“You have no friends, because you are doing 
wrong,—you are a criminal.” Swift’s voice was 
cold, inexorable. “The only friend you have in this 
house,—outside of a sick, irresponsible woman,—is 
Magee,—your partner in crime!” 

“Hush! I won’t hear such talk!” The girl’s eyes 
blazed now. “You have overshot your mark, Mr. 
Swift! I think from your belligerent manner you 
are not so sure of yourself as you pretend. I am 
not going to give up this thing without a fight. Go 
on,—take the case to law! I am not afraid of you!” 


160 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Not afraid of me”—his look was concentrated 
hate—“but you may well be afraid of the courts! 
Your ignorance is the explanation of your bravado. 
You know nothing of what awaits you. A trial will 
mean your deepest distress, your defeat and down¬ 
fall. As a friend, I warn you, not to brave such 
disaster.” 

“As a friend!” the scorn in her little face was so 
great as to make Swift a bit uncomfortable. “Don’t 
you ever dare to claim friendship with me! Angela 
Howland is insulted at the mere suggestion!” 

“But Ida Campbell makes the mistake of her life 
if she rejects the friendship of Leonard Swift. Not 
that I feel specially friendly toward you, but I can 
tell you a mild friendliness would be better for you 
than my enmity.” 

“Why are you my enemy?” The girl turned to 
him suddenly, her eyes filling, her red lip quivering. 
“Why won’t you help me investigate my claim,— 
you know I have one,—and then, if it is proved 
false,—I will go away.” 

“You’ll go away now,—or you’ll find yourself in 
the deepest trouble you ever imagined. Why am I 
your enemy? First, because you are a willful im¬ 
postor,—a criminal,—and second, because you re¬ 
ject my friendship,—leaving me only one attitude 
to take toward you. And it is the attitude of the 
entire household. Nurse Lane knows you for an 
impostor. Edith Mills, clear-sighted girl, declares 
you are a fraud. The servants have no faith in 
you—” 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 161 

“The servants! Angela Howland is not to be 
judged by servants! Lane, I admit, is to be con¬ 
sidered, but no other servants!” 

“Lane denounces you. I know”—his voice grew 
soft for a moment—“Mrs. Howland is so glad at 
the thought of recovering her child that she thinks 
she recognizes you. But her poor, disordered mind 
cannot count. Yet it proves that she does not really 
recognize you,—or, Lane would do so. A nurse 
knows a little child quite as well as a mother does.” 

“No”—and Ida’s eyes grew solemn—“no, there is 
an instinct,—an ineradicable memory that—” 

“Poppycock! A mother’s love is a beautiful 
thing,—in sentiment,—but as practical proof, it 
amounts to just nothing at all! So, there now, Miss 
Ida Campbell, what’s your next move ?” 

“I have none to make,” she answered easily, al¬ 
most pertly. “The moves are yours. Just when 
are you going to put me out?” 

She couldn’t have chosen a better way to put 
Swift’s anger to rout. Her piquant, saucy little 
face looked smiling into his; her eyes were brave, 
dauntless,—it was clearly to be seen she knew no 
such thing as fear. 

Exasperated beyond limit, he was yet spellbound 
by the lovely, mobile face, the dancing eyes, the 
pouting lips. 

“You witch!” he cried, involuntarily, and then 
quickly resuming his stern air, he said, “I think I 
must ask you to go practically at once. At least, 
begin at once to make your plans. If you are to 


162 Wheels Within Wheels 

be Mrs. Howland’s companion, your salary will 
probably be ample for your needs. Mrs. Howland 
has quite enough money to live comfortably, even 
handsomely,—and I trust,—and I hope you will be 
happy with her.” 

“Oh, you do! You do!” the slender figure drew 
itself up to its full height, and as Ida Campbell left 
the room, she flung over her shoulder, 

“You’ve overreached yourself, Mr. Swift.” 

“She said that before,” mused Swift, “now what 
the devil does she mean by it?” 

“What’s the matter?” asked Edith Mills, meeting * 
Ida in the hall. “You look like a young tornado.” 

“Had a set-to with Mr. Swift,” and the brown 
eyes still gleamed with an expression of injured 
innocence. 

“Come for a walk, and tell me about it.” 

Attracted by this seeming friendliness, Ida took 
Edith’s arm, and they walked up and down the long 
verandah. 

“Do you believe I am Angela Howland?” Ida 
asked, earnestly, and then, without waiting for an 
answer, she exclaimed, “I can’t stand that Mr. 
Swift! He makes me angry, just to talk to him! 
He’s so unjust, so unwilling to talk reason!” 

“But you see, my dear, what you think reasori and 
what he thinks reason are two very different things.” 

“What do you think?” 

This time Ida looked at her companion and waited 
for the reply. 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 163 

“I can’t make you out,” Edith said. “Em not so 
much concerned with the question of whether you’re 
Angela or not, as I am with the question of whether 
you think you are—” 

“Meaning I am a willful impostor!” 

“Are you ?” 

“How can I be, when my own mother knows 
me?” 

“You’re begging the question. In her present men¬ 
tal state, Mrs. Howland would recognize any sweet 
young girl as her daughter, if the sweet young girl 
said she was.” 

“I don’t think so,” Ida began slowly, and then 
they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of 
Conrad Stryker. 

“Who—who is that?” and Ida clutched Edith’s 
arm. 

“Why, don’t you know?—that’s Conrad,—the 
idiot boy. Hello, Conrad, what do you want?” 

“Nothing,—nothing—” The drawling voice 

dropped to a mere whisper. 

Ida Campbell went closer to him. She looked 
into the vacant face,—the lack-luster eyes, and tak¬ 
ing his hands in hers, said, “Conrad! I know 
you!” 

“Oh, come now,” and Edith Mills laughed lightly, 
“that won’t help any, Ida! If you are Angela, you 
couldn’t remember this poor boy whom you probably 
never saw even when you were a baby,—and if 
you’re not Angela, why, of course, you don’t know 
him.” 


164 Wheels Within Wheels 

“But I do know him! He carried me once,—I 
remember it!” 

“Carried you! Where? When?” 

“When I was little. I don't know where, but I 
do remember that he carried me in his arms.” 

“Did you, Conrad?” and Edith looked at him, 
doubtfully. 

“Did I what? Did I what?” he babbled. 

“Did you carry this lady—” 

“No, no,” interrupted Ida, “did you carry a little 
girl,—a baby?” 

“Carry the baby? Oh, yes,—oh, yes,—Conrad 
carried the baby, this way,—this way—” 

Cradling his arms, the foolish boy pretended to 
hold a baby in them, and leaned over, crooning, in 
a perfect imitation of soothing a little child. 

“Yes, yes, Conrad carried the baby—it's all right, 
—it’s all right now.” 

A wide vacuous smile made his speech seem ut¬ 
terly meaningless, and Ida Campbell sighed. 

“I don’t understand it,” she said, “but I do re¬ 
member that face. He did carry me when I was 
little.” 

“If you could prove that,” Edith said, with a 
touch of irony, “it might mean that you were here 
as a baby,—for I’m sure Conrad never has been 
away from Normandale in his life.” * 

“I can’t prove it,” said Ida, sadly; “I can’t seem 
to prove anything.” 

“Well, things are going to be proved for you. 
Mr. Swift is going to see the Harrisons again, and 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 165 

he thinks he will get evidence enough to prove that 
you and Mr. Magee made up this racket.” 

“No!” Ida turned white. “It isn’t fair to drag 
the Harrisons into this! They don’t know any¬ 
thing about me!” 

“Oh, don’t they! Well, Leonard thinks they do, 
—and he’s going to see them. O’Brien advises it.” 

“O’Brien?” 

“The detective. I tell you, Ida Campbell, you’re 
pretty smart, but you can’t put anything over on 
Len Swift! You’d have to get up early in the 
morning to fool him!” 

“Oh, should I?” and Ida Campbell smiled sud¬ 
denly and nodded her pert little head. “Oh, should 
I, Miss Edith Mills?” 

This sudden change of demeanor made Edith 
stare, and she was still staring as Ida left her and 
ran into the house. 

Straight to the library she went and entered with¬ 
out knocking. 

Swift, at the desk, looked up in annoyance. 

“I don’t remember sending for you, Miss Camp¬ 
bell.” 

“No, you didn’t. I just came.” And she smiled 
at him. 

His scornful gaze irritated her, and she dropped 
her white eyelids for an instant, and then her eyes 
quickly reappeared, still sparkling. 

She laughed with her eyes, talked with them,— 
sometimes explained with them her otherwise in¬ 
comprehensible speech. 


166 Wheels Within Wheels 

Also she had a little rippling laugh, which she 
would suddenly check, to the deep regret of her 
hearers, and then as unexpectedly it would break 
forth again. 

She was not unaware of the charm of these tricks 
of hers, but she had never before encountered a 
man who was so utterly indifferent to them as 
Leonard Swift. 

The variations of her expression left him unaf¬ 
fected, the matter of what she had to say interested 
him not a whit. 

She told him that Miss Mills had informed her 
that he proposed to visit the Harrisons, and she 
asked that she might go with him. 

“But why?” he asked, coldly. “If they tell me 
anything in your favor—” 

“You’ll never repeat it!” she cried, smiling wick¬ 
edly. “I know you, Mr. Leonard Swift! You’ll 
learn anything you can, and what suits your purpose 
you’ll reveal; and what you don’t like, you’ll sup¬ 
press! Now, I won’t stand that sort of perform¬ 
ance,—not for one minute!” 

She smiled and waited for him to speak. A's he 
kept silent, she began again. 

“And so, sir, you’ll let me go with you or—” 

“Or?” he watched her steadily. 

“Or—or—oh, I don’t know!” Her bravado gave 
way at last, and she broke down and cried. 

Not noisy weeping, but with great silent stifled 
sobs that shook her slender shoulders as she bowed 
her head on her arms. 


“I Can’t Prove Anything!” 167 

Swift looked at her coldly. 

“You needn’t think to move me that way, Miss 
Campbell. Don’t you know, you silly girl, that 
everything you say, everything you do, only makes 
me more convinced of your untruthfulness,—of 
your fraud! Even if I wanted to believe in you, I 
could not do so! You are simply impossible! You 
don’t want me to go to the Harrisons’ because you 
fear what they will tell me about you.” 

“I don’t!” She rose and faced him stormily. 
The tears wet on her cheeks, her angry eyes and 
flushed little face made a striking picture, and Swift 
was forced into a grudging admiration of her 
beauty. This, however, he did not show, and only 
said: 

“If you are quite through with your histrionics, 
you may be excused; but I will talk to you again 
when you are more calm.” 

“You won’t! I’ll never speak to you again! But 
I shall win the day! You’ll find it’s a game two can 
play at,—and I believe I have the trump cards!” 


CHAPTER XII 

The Harrison Story 

“Y THINK, Mrs. Harrison, 1 ” Leonard Swift 
said, “that you must tell me all you know 
**“ of the matter. Indeed, unless you do, you 
will find yourself in serious trouble.” 

“But I liked Miss Campbell,—we all liked her. 
She’s a dear girl and I can’t bear to think she is a 
wrongdoer of any sort.” 

“She may not be. But it is not for you to judge. 
So, you’d better confide in me, now, and save your¬ 
self the trouble and annoyance of having the detec¬ 
tives come here on this same errand.” 

“But I know very little.” 

“Tell that.” Swift was laconic. 

The lady still demurred. “I overheard it,” she 
said, “and it seems so mean to repeat—” 

“It is necessary,” said Swift, sternly. “No more 
hesitation, now, tell it out.” 

“Mr. Magee was calling—” 

“He came often?” 

“Not often, but he came two or three times, quite 
close together.” 

“And saw Miss Campbell alone?” 

“Yes; though I sat in the adjoining room.” 

“And could hear their conversation?” 

168 


169 


The Harrison Story 

“Yes, I could. I didn’t listen, especially, but 
neither did I suppose it was of a private nature.” 

“Go on.” 

“What I remember most distinctly is the last time 
he was here; he was evidently trying to persuade 
her to do something that she was disinclined to do.” 

“Ah,” and Swift leaned forward in breathless 
interest. 

“And he said,—I don’t remember the exact words, 
of course,—but he said, in effect, 'Keep up a brave 
front, and you can carry it off/ and 'Insist that you 
are Angela, and they will believe it/ Then she 
would say, 'Oh, I can’t—I’m afraid,’ and Mr. Magee 
would insist again.” 

“You’re sure of all this, Mrs. Harrison?” Swift 
looked very grave. “You’re sure Angela was the 
name they used?” 

“Oh, yes; and she said, 'How can I act a lie? It 
isn’t right!’ and he said, 'Yes, it is right! You are 
Angela.’ And at last she agreed to his wishes and 
promised to do exactly as he told her.” 

“This is so very important, Mrs. Harrison, that 
I must ask you to make an affidavit. Do not refuse, 
for it is demanded in the name of the law.” 

Impressed by this statement, Mrs. Harrison made 
no objection to signing a paper on which Swift had 
written, almost verbatim, the information she had 
just given him. A parlor maid was called in to wit¬ 
ness the lady’s signature, and with this document 
safely in his pocket, Swift went away. 

As soon as he could reach the office of Detective 


170 Wheels Within Wheels 

O’Brien, the two put their heads together over this 
new and incriminating evidence. 

“You see, the girl is not so much to blame as 
Magee,” Swift observed. “I’ve suspected he was 
at the bottom of it all. And,—may it not be that— 
I’d rather not say it.” 

“I know,” and O’Brien nodded his head. 
“Mightn’t it be that Magee did for Mr. Howland. 
I’ve never been able to dope it out before,—but if 
Magee and this girl are in cahoots, maybe Magee is 
the criminal, aided and abetted—” 

“Oh, don’t drag the girl into that part of it!” 

“But, she’s the only human being that I know of 
who knew about those poison bulbs,—or tubes, or 
whatever you call ’em. Says she saw ’em in 
France—” 

“But it was she who picked up the bits of glass 
as evidence.” 

“Bluff—or maybe she didn’t know Magee was— 
no, that won’t do. Well, we’re on the trail. If that 
girl, sprung from nowhere, is picked out by Magee 
to impersonate the Howland baby, you must see the 
whole thing is a deep-laid and clever plot. Say 
Howland did put Magee on the track of the den¬ 
tists and all that to find his daughter. Say Magee, 
unable to do any better, finds this particular girl, 
with the spread apart teeth, and all that. Ngw, he 
knows she isn’t the daughter, but he thinks if she 
will pretend she is, they can put it over. Then,— 
say his plan fails because Howland won’t fall for it. 


The Harrison Story 171 

So,—he puts Howland out of the way and goes 
ahead with the plot.” 

“What does he get out of it?” 

“Can’t you see through a millstone with a hole in 
it! He’ll marry the girl, of course.” 

“Good Lord! Do you think all that’s true—” 

“I dunno. I’ve only begun to look into it. I 
don’t say I’ve got it exactly to rights yet, but I do 
think we’re on the trail. Don’t you?” 

“I—I don’t know what to think. I know Magee 
and Mr. Howland were discussing this thing when 
I went in the library, that night he died.” 

“Were they quarreling?” 

“Not about this. They were a little at odds, be¬ 
cause Magee was trying to advise Mr. Howland not 
to listen to a mine project that was being offered 
him. But they were talking about this lost daughter 
business, and when I came in they shut right up 
about it.” 

“That the last talk they had about it?” 

“I suppose so,—a few hours after that Mr. How¬ 
land died.” 

“Well, if Magee, say, went down to see him 
later that night,—and if they couldn’t agree, and if 
Magee was the villain,—mind you, I don’t yet say 
he was,—but if he was,—he had time and oppor¬ 
tunity,—now, didn’t he?” 

“Certainly he did,—but there’s no real proof.” 

“That’s got to be dug up. If Austin Magee is the 
man we’re after, we’ll find some proof.” 


172 Wheels Within Wheels 

“You won’t have to drag the girl into this graver 
charge, will you ?” 

“Not unless we can learn that she gave him the 
poison thing—from France.” 

“Oh, she never did that! To poison her father!” 

“Her father! She isn’t really the Howland 
baby!” 

“No,—of course not. But I meant to poison the 
man she claims for her father.” 

“If that girl is enough of a wrong un to pretend 
to be the Howland child when she isn’t, she’s wrong 
un enough for anything!” 

“No; there’s a wide difference between an im¬ 
postor and a murderer.” 

“I know; of course there is. But, all that will 
come out,—if there’s anything back of it.” 

The daily life at Howlands had taken on a 
strange, unsettled air. 

As always, the ordering was done by the butler, 
and the routine work was in charge of a housekeeper. 
Old servants these, and willing to go on with their 
duties, even though Ralph Howland’s death had left 
the place without a master. 

Mary Howland preserved a semblance of author¬ 
ity, which, however, was assuming day by day more 
of the real thing. She presided at the table,' while 
Leonard Swift, assuming it his right, sat opposite 
her. 

The secretary, the stenographer and Ida Camp¬ 
bell were usually present, and the conversation at 


The Harrison Story 173 

meals was, more often than not, light, even 
sparkling. 

Whatever might be the undercurrent of feeling, 
it seemed to be an unwritten law that table talk must 
be courteous and impersonal. 

The appointments of dinner were rather formal, 
as had always been the Howlands’ custom, and 
coffee was served in the living-room. 

Austin Magee and Ida Campbell were taking 
theirs together, as they sat in a deep window-seat. 

They were not hidden from view, but the room 
was so large, their murmured conversation was in 
small danger of being overheard. 

“I’m not quite sure,” the girl was saying, “but I 
think Mr. Swift has interviewed Mrs. Harrison.” 

“I know he has. Also, he has since seen O’Brien.” 

Magee looked gloomy of face as he stirred his 
coffee unheedingly. 

Then Ida said: “What shall we do? Would it 
not be best to tell the whole truth?” 

“We can’t talk here. Will you go out on the 
terrace with me?” 

“I daren’t. They’re all watching us.” 

“Will you join me there, later, then?” 

“Yes; after I’ve spent a time with mother in her 
room.” 

“Very well. Be out there by ten. I’ll wait for 
you on the south side.” 

The two rose and sauntered toward the table, 
where Ida put down her empty cup and then took 
a chair by Mary Howland’s side. 


174 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Pretty one,” and a motherly hand patted the 
soft bare shoulder of the girl, “you must sing for me 
to-night.” 

“Yes, mother; up in your room,—not here.” 

“Why not here?” said Swift, pleasantly; “let us 
all enjoy it.” 

It was his plan to treat Ida, in the company of 
others, quite as an honored guest. What he had to 
say to her seriously he said to her alone. 

“Thank you, Mr. Swift”—she flashed a smile at 
him—“but I sing awfully well, and I hate to waste 
it on those who only ask it out of politeness.” 

“I don’t do that,” declared Magee. “Do sing 
downstairs, Miss Campbell.” 

“Yes, do,” and Edith Mills added her plea. “I’ve 
never heard you sing—” 

“Oh, Edith! with your acute hearing, you must 
have heard me—” 

“Oh, of course, from another room—” 

“Never mind,” and Ida smiled impartially on them 
all. “I’m not going to sing to-night, except for my 
mother alone.” 

“Selfish little piece!” and Leonard Swift gave the 
girl a glance that was more flattering than she had 
looked for from him. 

“Is he thawing?” she asked herself, in wonder. 
“Can I get him around yet?” # 

Then to Swift, “Oh, I don’t want you to think 
me selfish.” There was the slightest emphasis on 
the “you” and the brown eyes were wistful as she 
gave him a quick glance. 


175 


The Harrison Story 

Both the tone and the look were more friendly 
than she had ever before given Swift, and there was 
something in them that went to his head. 

In spite of himself, in spite of his hate of this girl, 
he found himself saying: 

“Then change your mind—and sing—for me.” 

“For you,—alone, some time—perhaps—’’ Ida’s 
voice fell to an almost inaudible whisper, meant only 
for Swift, who was near her. 

But it didn’t escape Edith Mills’ sharp ear, and her 
heart gave a sudden throb of fear. 

Leonard Swift was her own quarry,—though she 
had not yet caught him,—or, at least, he did not 
know that she had. Nor did she believe that Ida 
Campbell had the slightest interest for him or in 
him. 

But the whispered sentence, the answering look 
that Swift gave toward the alluring little face, con¬ 
vinced Miss Mills of a possible danger which must 
be averted at any cost. 

Whereupon Edith Mills became at once the foe of 
Ida Campbell, and hereafter it was to be war to 
the knife, on Edith’s side, at any rate. 

Apparently quite unaware of this, Ida rose, say¬ 
ing, “Come along, Edith, let’s go up to mother’s 
room and we’ll both sing to her.” 

The trio went away, and a constrained silence fell 
on the two men who stayed behind. 

“Well, Magee,” said Swift, at last, “I think I 
must ask you to get along a little faster with your 


176 Wheels Within Wheels 

duties as executor. I’d like to get my affairs into 
some sort of shape.” 

“Can’t do it, I’m afraid. There’s a lot to be 
cleared up before the provisions of that will can be 
carried out.” 

“Meaning just what?” 

“First, the death of Ralph Howland must be ac¬ 
counted for. If that man was killed, you know, I 
suppose, that it may make a difference in his be¬ 
quests.” 

“No, I don’t know that.” 

“I only say it may. Then again, if Miss Camp¬ 
bell is Angela Howland,—it will make a very de¬ 
cided difference.” 

“Doubtless. And there’s no one more fitted to tell 
whether Miss Campbell is Angela or not, than— 
yourself.” 

“Ah, you’ve seen Mrs. Harrison.” 

“I have.” 

“And she has given you to understand that the 
appearance of Ida—of Angela—is a—” 

“A wicked, scheming plot,—devised by you, and 
carried out, against her will, by Miss Campbell!” 

“Be careful, Swift, don’t accuse blindly—” 

“Blindly nothing! I know all about it. Mrs. 
Harrison heard you two precious scamps talking,—• 
no, she didn’t eavesdrop, she sat in the next 
room—” 

“Of course she did—we knew she was there—” 

“But you didn’t know she heard your plans! You 
didn’t know she heard enough to prove your im- 


The Harrison Story 177 

posture! But you can’t put it over! You may as 
well give up the game! ,, 

“And then?” 

“And then I will come into my own. Affairs will 
be duly settled up,—and, Magee, if you care to stay 
on as my secretary, you may.” 

“Thank you,—I feel sure I have other plans.” 

“Care to tell them?” 

“Not at present.” 

The two men looked at each other. When their 
eyes met, both glanced away, only to resume scru¬ 
tiny at the first opportunity. 

At last Swift spoke, with something of an effort. 

“I want you to understand me clearly, Magee. 
If you are ready to drop your part of this farce,— 
this imposture,—I will see to it that Miss Campbell 
drops her claim. That all out of the way, I will 
use my utmost endeavors to learn the truth about 
Ralph’s death. I will engage a detective from New 
York,—I know of a good one,—” 

“So do I.” 

“But I won’t attend to that until this fool Angela 
business is settled. Understand me,—if I thought 
for a minute that the girl had the ghost of a claim, 
I’d willingly hand everything over to her—” 

“Why tell that very superfluous falsehood?” 

Magee’s tone was insolent, yet Swift didn’t seem 
to mind that so much as he did the implication of 
the words. 

“It isn’t a falsehood,” he asseverated, apparently 
without rancor. “I truly would give up in a minute 


178 Wheels Within Wheels 

to the real Angela. But this impostor,—this wilful 
usurper,—oh, pshaw, you know how ridiculous her 
claim is!” 

“She has teeth just like her mother's,” said 
Magee, slowly, “and—” 

“Rubbish! That’s nothing. Nor is it anything 
that Mary Howland cottons to her. What sad be¬ 
reft woman wouldn’t love a girl who pretended to 
be her lost daughter!” 

“Excuse me, Swift, I have some matters to look 
after,” and without further good night, Magee 
strode from the room. 

For it was on the stroke of ten, and he wanted 
to see Ida Campbell. 

He found her already at the appointed meeting 
place. 

“Forgive my tardiness,” he said; “Swift was talk¬ 
ing to me.” 

“He has seen Mrs. Harrison?” 

“Yes; and she overheard all we said,—and put 
the worst possible construction on it.” 

“There were not many constructions to choose 
from,” the girl said, with a bitter little laugh. 

“Ida,—tell me, can’t you get proofs,—some kind, 
—any kind ?” 

“All I can think of is that Miss Jane said she left 
a record of the whole episode of finding the baby 
among her things in France. The clothes, you 
know, are in Australia, but these records in 
France—” 

“Where in France?” 


The Harrison Story 179 

“Saint Germain. In a house called Villa du Bois. 
I’m sure they must be there still for the people who 
live there are old and staid. I wish I could *go back 
there and get them. ,, 

“Are all Miss Campbell’s papers there ?” 

“Yes; except what are in Australia. How would 
it be for mother and me to make a trip over there—” 

“Swift wouldn’t let you go.” 

“On the contrary, I think he’d be glad to have 
me go.” 

“Not he! Ida,—are you blind? Can’t you see 
the man’s in love with you?” 

“With me! Nonsense!” Her dainty little laugh 
rang out. “You fool yourself—” 

“Not I. But I don’t care a whoop if he is,—if 
you’re not in love with him! Are you ?” 

“I! Leonard Swift! I care for him less than 
for any man in the whole universe!” 

“And don’t you care that he loves you?” 

“Not the tiniest mite—” 

“Well, then,—do you care that I love you?” 

“Ah,” she gave a little gasping sigh. “Ah,— 
that’s different—” 

And Austin Magee knew at once that it was dif¬ 
ferent. 

In the shadow of the great pillars of the verandah, 
he took her gently in his arms and whispered, “And 
are you mine? May I fight for your rights, your 
birthright, your heritage ?” 

“I shall be glad to have some one to fight for me,” 
she said, simply, and then, yielding to his caress, she 


180 Wheels Within Wheels 

added, “and I am yours. But only if I am proved 
to be Angela,—not if I’m a—a wicked impostor,— 
and”—a little sob came into her voice—“and—I 
am,—I am an impostor!” 

“Yes”—and Swift’s cold voice cut in on theirs— 
“you are an impostor, Miss Campbell, and I’m glad 
to hear you admit your perjury. Will you come 
with me? I want a little talk with you?” 

“Yes, I will,” and a sudden determination in her 
voice caused Swift to look at her sharply. 

“You come, too, Magee,” he said, over his shoul¬ 
der, and they all went to the library. 

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Swift said, a bit curtly, 
“but I was out there in search of you two. And I 
distinctly heard Miss Campbell say she was an im¬ 
postor. This I consider a confession, and I want 
it in writing, with you, Magee, as a witness.” 

“Can’t you use it without a witness?” asked 
Magee, a little curiously. 

“No; I doubt if it would be any good in law 
unless witnessed. But you can’t well refuse. Now, 
Miss Campbell, I will write down just what you 
said, and if, on reading it, you agree that it is what 
you said, I’ll trouble you to sign it, and Magee to 
witness it,—and that will clear up all this matter.” 

Swift was almost jubilant as he prepared to write 
his screed. 

“Excuse me a minute,” Magee said, “I left my 
cigarette case on the porch table.” 

He left the room, and in a few moments Swift 


The Harrison Story 181 

had his document prepared and gave it to Ida to 
read. 

“Where's Magee?" he asked, not having noticed 
his departure. 

“He went for his cigarette case. He hasn't come 
back yet." 

They waited. Ida Campbell read the paper over 
twice. It contained only the exact words she had 
used, and an affidavit that she had said them, and 
that they were true. But Magee did not come back. 

Impatiently Swift went in search of him. 

But he didn’t find him that night,—nor the next 
day, nor the next,—nor at all. 

Austin Magee had vanished,—absolutely and mys¬ 
teriously vanished. 


CHAPTER XIII 

Not Sure! 


T HE disappearance of Austin Magee was in¬ 
explicable, except on the assumption of his 
guilty connection with the mysteries of 
Howlands. 

“It's tantamount to a confession,” Leonard Swift 
said; “and not only a confession of collusion with 
Miss Campbell in her imposture, but it seems to me 
to indicate his connection with the graver crime of 
Ralph Howland’s—” 

“Don’t say murder,” broke in Esterbrook, who, in 
the library, was discussing these things. “Even if 
the poison bulb idea is the correct one, we can’t say 
it was not suicide.” 

“Nothing of that sort!” Edith Mills declared 
positively. “I knew Mr. Howland too well to be¬ 
lieve him capable of suicide. And why would he? 
He had everything to live for—” 

“You don’t know all his affairs,” and Swift shook 
his head. “It may be he had some secret troubles, 
—many men have—” 

“Well, it was nothing financial,” Esterbrook as¬ 
serted. “He had money enough to sink a ship, and 
his accounts are in perfect order.” 

“I know it,” Swift sighed moodily. “And I want 
to get my inheritance fixed up, and now here’s 
182 


Not Sure! 183 

Magee absconded, and there’ll be the devil to pay, 
getting my title to the estate.” 

“Ought not to be,” Esterbrook reassured him; 
“that is, so far as Magee’s absence is concerned. 
But what about the Campbell claim ?” 

“Magee’s flight puts the kibosh on that!” Swift 
pronounced. “Here that man’s been gone three days 
now, and no trace can be found of him. He’ll never 
turn up again.” 

“Oh, ridiculous! Of course he will. Why, he’ll 
want his own share of the estate, and as executor 
that’ll amount to quite a pile.” 

“Even so,” Swift disagreed, “I don’t think he’ll 
return. I know Magee,—he’s a queer duck. He 
hung on to that fable of the returned Angela as long 
as he could, and then when he saw the jig was up, 
—when I asked him to sign that paper, he just lit 
out,—for good and all.” 

“Of course he did that to save Ida Campbell,” 
said Edith, meditatively; “your statement, Leonard, 
that she admitted she was an impostor won’t carry 
any weight if she denies it, which, of course, she 
will.” 

“She has,” said Esterbrook. “She told me that 
she wasn’t sure she was an impostor—” 

“Wasn’t sure!” exclaimed Swift. “What sort of 
talk is that? Of course she’s sure that she is an 
impostor, or that she isn’t! Is she crazy, too ? I’ve 
always said the best thing would be for Mrs. How¬ 
land and Miss Campbell to go away and live by 
themselves—” 


184 Wheels Within Wheels 

“But we’re not going to do that—” and a deter¬ 
mined voice sounded as the door opened, and a de¬ 
termined little figure followed it. “I’ve come be¬ 
cause I’ve a right here. I’ve a right as daughter of 
the house, and I’m going to exercise it.” 

Miss Campbell seated herself in one of the big 
leather chairs and crossed her slim black silk legs 
with deliberation. 

She seemed to have a new air of authority, of 
dignity, and she looked from one to another with 
a face full of self-confidence. 

“You have broken open Mr. Magee’s desk?” she 
said, glancing at it, astonished. 

“Yes,” the lawyer said, “it was necessary, as there 
seems to be no sign of Mr. Magee’s return.” 

“I’ve a perfect right to break it open,” Swift said, 
coldly. “There’s no occasion for an explanation, 
Esterbrook. Austin Magee was Ralph Howland’s 
secretary. For the present he is mine. In his ab¬ 
sence, I must have access to his papers.” 

“Have you learned anything from them?” 

Ida’s little face was eager, and she sat forward 
in the big chair. 

“Well,” said the lawyer, “we found a bundle of 
papers that it seems the secretary put away there 
the night of Mr. Howland’s death. They are mostly 
the correspondence about the search for his missing 
daughter—” 

“Me!” and Ida Campbell nodded her head tri¬ 
umphantly. 


Not Sure! 185 

“You!” and the contempt in Swift’s tone was 
boundless. 

Yet the saucy smile that Ida gave him made his 
glance soften and he could not quite keep the ad¬ 
miration out of his eyes. 

The girl radiated hope and courage and showed, 
moreover, a sort of roguish superiority to circum¬ 
stances that caught the attention of the lawyer. If 
she were an impostor, she was surely going to try 
hard to put it over! 

And she must be an impostor. Swift had heard 
her say so, heard it so positively that he immediately 
wanted to get it on paper and signed. 

Now, to be sure, she was denying that admission, 
but, of course, she would. And her partner in de¬ 
ception had run away, rather than sign the incrimi¬ 
nating paper. 

A new thought struck Esterbrook. 

Miss Campbell must be in communication with 
Magee. That would explain her carefree attitude 
and her self-assurance. 

“You know where Mr. Magee is?” he said, half 
inquiringly, and half accusingly. 

“No, I haven’t the slightest idea,” she returned, 
and faced the lawyer with such an ingenious ex¬ 
pression of sincerity that he instinctively believed 
her. 

Edith Mills, however, more wise to feminine 
powers of dissembling, did not believe her. 

“Miss Campbell would scarcely admit it if she 
did,” the stenographer remarked, pointedly. 


186 Wheels Within Wheels 

“That’s so, too,” and Ida gave Edith a whimsical 
smile. “You see, gentlemen”—she included the two 
nonplused men in her assertive nod—“I have the 
whip hand. I claim I’m Angela Howland, and, 
while my proofs are not exactly tangible, yet you 
have no real disproof. In fact, if I am not Angela, 
you ought to be able to produce the body of Angela, 
or some trace of it.” 

“Not after all these years—” began Esterbrook. 

“Yes, some trace or at least some theory that 
would account for its disappearance from its casket.” 

“Plenty of theories about that,” Swift stated. 
“Wrong name-plate,—wrong casket—” 

“All mere conjecture. Now, I hold that I as that 
infant was found to be alive and was taken from 
that casket and given to Miss Campbell. The de¬ 
tails of this I do not know exactly, but I hold it to 
be the truth,—and unless you can offer a true 
counter proposition, I propose to—fight it out.” 

She looked from one to another, frowning at 
Swift, smiling at the lawyer, and—yes, positively 
giving a tiny, fleeting wink to Edith Mills. 

Edith gasped. She didn’t exactly hate herself, 
and she had rather dominated the office affairs of 
her late lenient employer. And now, retained as 
stenographer by Leonard Swift, at least for the 
time being, she expected to wield the same general 
scepter of dictatorial femininity. 

Very pretty Edith was, in her somewhat com¬ 
monplace way, but beside this new, mercurial little 
personality, she seemed colorless and inept. 


187 


Not Sure! 

Yet she was very perspicacious. And there was 
one thing Ida Campbell could do that would make 
Miss Mills her enemy. That was to ensnare 
Leonard Swift. This tragedy had not yet been ef¬ 
fected, but to Miss Mills the outlook seemed por¬ 
tentous and she had her ear to the ground. 

“Fight is a strong word, Miss Campbell,” and 
Swift looked at her curiously. 

“And I shall put up a strong fight,” was the in¬ 
stant and imperturbable response. 

Then, while maintaining her cool, level glance 
at Swift, Ida Campbell took out her little case of 
cigarettes and proceeded to light one. 

This always incensed Swift. Not her smoking, 
lots of girls did that,—but the air with which she 
tapped her cigarette on the back of her little white 
hand and proceeded to light it, all the while gazing 
straight at him with a slight, amused smile. 

Swift was brave and bold by nature, but when it 
came to aplomb this girl had him beaten a mile. 

He began to bluster. 

“If you think, Miss Campbell, that you can put 
this over, you’re making the mistake of your life!” 

“And if you think that I can’t, you’re making the 
mistake of your life,” and she let a thin spiral of 
smoke escape her red lips. 

“This war of words won’t get either of you any¬ 
where,” said Esterbrook, slowly. “Miss Campbell, 
the burden of proof rests on you. You can’t, as 
Mr. Swift says, walk in here, stake out a claim, so 
to speak, and settle down on it.” 


188 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Squat on it is the technical term, Mr. Ester- 
brook,and the ridiculous girl looked at him 
gravely. “But that’s just what I propose to do,— 
am doing, in fact. Now what’s your plan to evict 
me ?” 

“Don’t talk rubbish!” The lawyer was beginning 
to lose his temper, yet the silly thing was so absurd, 
—and so captivating,—it was difficult to be harsh 
with her. And so he ended up, a little lamely, “Do 
you plan to retain a lawyer?” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she smiled; “will you 
take my case ?” 

“He will not!” Swift stormed at her. “Nor will 
any decent lawyer. Who would lend himself to the 
furtherance of a crime—perhaps you do not know 
imposture is a crime?” 

“If I don’t, it’s not because you haven’t told me, 
—several times,” and still she showed that faintly 
amused little grin. “Now, see here, Mr. Esterbrook, 
I’ve another bit of proof. I remember Conrad.” 

She said this with an air of voicing a final and 
decisive argument. 

“You say you do!” Swift cried. “That’s noth¬ 
ing. You may say you remember everybody in the 
village, but it won’t amount to that!” and he snapped 
his fingers straight at her. 

“Oh, my goodness! don’t scare me to death,” she 
cried, in a pretty affectation of fear. “Well, it’s 
time for my walk with mother. I must run. I 
suppose we may say this will be continued in our 


Not Sure! 189 

next,” and with her inimitable grace and gentle dig¬ 
nity, she rose and left the room. 

“An impossible chit!” Swift declared, and from 
his honest indignation, the sharp-eyed Edith con¬ 
tentedly deduced that he was not going to fall for 
the impostor's charm. 

“An impossible situation,” said Esterbrook, 
musingly. “Here it's three days since Magee dis¬ 
appeared, nearly three weeks since Ralph Howland 
died, and no ray of light on either mystery. And 
this girl has to be reckoned with. We can't ignore 
her claim. What does she mean by saying she re¬ 
members Conrad?” 

“She does,” Edith volunteered. “We met him 
one day, and she knew him at once,—or said she 
did.” 

“Nothing to it,” Swift declared. “Mary How¬ 
land has told Ida of the half-witted boy, and she 
pretended she knew him,—though why she thinks 
that a point in her favor, I can’t see.” 

“Only as it proves an infant memory,” Ester- 
brook offered. “Yet nothing of that sort is real 
proof. She can fake memories as fast as she can 
talk. Now, real proof would be—” 

“There's no such thing,” Swift broke in impa¬ 
tiently. “You know yourself, Esterbrook, the only 
thing to do with her foolish claim is to quash it,— 
and at once. I'm thinking of offering her a sum 
of money—” 

Miss Mills laughed outright. “You don’t know 


190 Wheels Within Wheels 

friend Ida a little bit!” she scoffed. “1 can’t see her 
shutting up for ‘a sum of money.’ ” 

‘Then she can shut up without it! She’s—” But 
further speech on Swift’s part was interrupted by 
the entrance of Martin with a card. 

Following on the butler’s heels, yet with no effect 
of haste, came a good-looking, well set-up man, with 
eyes of a clear blue and upstanding chestnut hair. 

“Yes,” he said, “I am Wise,” and he looked at 
Leonard Swift while Swift scanned the card, which 
read only: 


Pennington Wise 

“I don’t seem to remember sending for you, Mr. 
Wise,” Swift said, his noncommittal expression 
seeming to reserve judgment for a moment. 

“No,” said the visitor, easily. “I came of my own 
accord. May I speak with you a moment ?” 

Partly of his own accord, and partly in acceptance 
of Swift’s slight nod of invitation, Wise took a 
chair near the desk. 

“I am a detective,” he said, “not of the police. I 
work on my own lines. But I take only cases that 
are strikingly unusual and of decided mystery in¬ 
terest. It’s an avocation with me, not a calling.” 

“You take a case whether you are asked to do so 
or not ?” Swift inquired, a little unpleasantly. 

“Oh, yes, if I can get the consent of the princi¬ 
pals.” Quite evidently it was difficult to offend this 
man. “Now, I’m exceedingly interested in the How- 


Not Sure! 


191 

land affair. Especially in the young woman who 
claims to be the daughter of the house, and also, in 
the recent disappearance of the private secretary.” 

“You seem to know all the details,” and Swift 
regarded the man more closely. 

“It’s all in the papers. On the face of it, it reads 
like the conventional murder yarn. Rich man, 
found dead in his library in the early morning by 
his butler. What could be more hackneyed as an 
opening proposition? Then to suspect the private 
secretary,—that, of course, is always done.” 

“Who suspects Magee ?” Swift growled this out. 

“I thought you did,” and this remarkable detec¬ 
tive turned a mild glance at the occupant of Ralph 
Howland’s desk chair. 

“I haven’t said so,” Swift returned, shortly. “I 
don’t expect to say so, and I take exception to your 
saying so. Moreover, Mr. Wise, I am not in need 
of a private detective, and if I were, I should prefer 
to select my own. May we consider this incident 
closed ?” 

“Not quite. You see, there are the heirs. Rather 
a question of the heirs. What about the newly re¬ 
turned daughter of the house?” 

“The whole matter, so far as I am concerned,” 
Swift curtly informed him, “is in the hands of my 
able lawyer, and the police.” 

“But will the police get anywhere ? Will they not, 
—have they not tried all the ways they know of to 
learn the truth, and then, failing, let the whole mat¬ 
ter slip from their attention and memory?” 


192 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Exactly what they have done, I believe/’ Ester- 
brook exclaimed. “I say, Swift, I wish you’d let 
Mr. Wise look into this thing. I know you well, 
sir, by reputation, and I, for one, would be mighty 
glad to have your services.” 

“And I would not!” Swift was angry now. 
“And I consider it an impertinence for you to come 
in here like this, unasked, and positively impudent 
to remain after I have told you I had no further 
business with you.” 

“But if I take it up entirely on my own account,— 
there would be, I suppose, no objection to that?” 

“There would be great and insurmountable ob¬ 
jection,” Swift said. 

“From you, perhaps, Mr. Swift.” Esterbrook 
looked at him gravely. “But as Mr. Howland’s 
lawyer, and in the absence,—the inexplicable ab¬ 
sence of his secretary, I should be very glad to en¬ 
gage you, Mr. Wise, on my own initiative. 

“You can’t do that,” and Swift gave him an angry 
look. “As my lawyer you are at my orders— 
Advices,” he amended, as Esterbrook looked up 
quickly. 

“I don’t especially care to be engaged by any one,” 
Wise went on, evenly, “I merely want to look into 
the case for my own satisfaction. It interests me 
because of its unusual features. I suppdse, Mr. 
Swift, you would be willing to answer me a few 
questions,—to let me make some inquiries in the 
household, to look round a bit,—in the furtherance 
of law and justice?” 


Not Sure! 


193 


Something in the fine-featured face, something 
in the clear-cut manner checked Leonard Swift’s in¬ 
tended refusal, and he said, grudgingly: 

“I suppose you may do that if you wish, but I 
can’t see the use of your drumming up a lot of so- 
called clews and evidences that lead nowhere—or, in 
a wrong direction.” 

“I may get nowhere,” and Wise’s face was seri¬ 
ous, “but I promise you, Mr. Swift, I shan’t go in 
a wrong direction.” 

It was after a rather prolonged period of silence 
that Swift finally said, “Do what you like then,—- 
but make your reports to me. I am master here. 
Mr. Esterbrook has no interests here but mine. 
There is no one else to consider.” 

“Mrs. Howland?” suggested Wise, gently. 

“No. She is an invalid,—mentally as well as 
physically. She is subject to hallucinations,—one 
being that the young lady staying with her is her 
daughter. So, as you can readily see, her opinion 
on any matter of importance cannot be asked or 
considered.” 

“I see,” and Wise nodded his head. “And the 
young lady you mentioned ?” 

“Is an impostor,—a girl who found a chance of 
impersonating the lost child of the Howlands. A 
daughter, who died in infancy—” 

“Yes, yes; I know the details. If the girl is an 
impostor she ought to be shown up.” 

“That she ought,” agreed Swift, and then added, 
“but it is not necessary to deal too harshly with her. 


194 Wheels Within Wheels 

She was aided and abetted,—indeed, I may say the 
plot was invented by an older and wiser head than 
hers. ,, 

“Meaning the missing private secretary ?” 

“Yes.” Swift warmed to his subject. “I have 
proved that Mr. Magee made up the scheme and 
coaxed,—almost forced Miss Campbell to play the 
part he planned for her.” 

Edith Mills pricked up her ears. If Swift was 
siding with Ida Campbell, well, she, Edith, had her 
work cut out! 

And then Ida Campbell appeared. 

Back from her walk, her bright, tantalizing little 
face aglow with the results of winter air and sun¬ 
shine, her pretty hair nestled into a white tam- 
o’shanter with an astounding tassel, and the rest of 
her slender person mostly encased in a knitted cos¬ 
tume of white wool, she looked the incarnation of 
joyous expectancy. 

“Mr. Wise?” she cried. “Oh, is it? Are you 
Mr. Wise?” 

She confronted him, and as his answering smile 
gave assent, she took him by both hands, crying, 
“Oh, have you come to get me my rights,—my 
recognition ?” 

“If recognition is your right,—I hope—I trust I 
can get it for you.” 

The detective looked at her curiously. He seemed 
attracted by her charm, and even smiled at her 
eagerness, yet he in no way definitely espoused her 
cause. 


Not Sure! 195 

The girl sensed the aloofness in his manner, and 
her face fell a little. But she said, with no per¬ 
ceptible diminution of enthusiasm: 

“Of course it is right that I should be recognized, 
—that my claim should be admitted. I am Angela 
Howland. Tve just come from a walk with my 
mother, and we found many things that we both 
remembered about my babyhood.’’ 

Swift’s raised eyebrows at this made Wise say: 

“Such things form no convincing proof, Miss— 
Campbell. Is there nothing more material, more 
practical—” 

“My teeth!” she said, making them prettily evi¬ 
dent by means of a wide smile. 

Wise looked at the little white even teeth, and 
noted the separation between the two front ones. 
It was unusual, it was not especially desirable, yet 
it seemed no detriment to the girl’s delicate beauty. 

“Just like mother’s, you know,” she went on, with 
a confidential little nod at the detective. “And, she 
says, just like her mother’s!” 

“Indicative but not positive proof,” said Wise, 
“is it the best you have ?” 

“Oh, I have my love for my mother—her love 
for me—” 

“Of less importance even than the teeth,” Swift 
said, but his glance was not quite as cold as his 
words,—so Edith Mills noticed. 

“And a conviction in your heart?” asked Wise, 
“are you sure you are Angela ?” 

“No—” she said, turning white, “no—not sure” 


CHAPTER XIV 

Conrad Remembers 

T HE sun parlor at Howlands was a most 
comfortable and attractive place. Attached 
to the house on one side, the other three 
sides were of glass, and the furnishings were the 
painted wicker and chintzes that so well suit a sunny 
lounge. The stone floor met levelly the bricked ter¬ 
races outside, from which could be seen the distant 
hills as well as the village nestling in the valley. 
Swings and settees, rugs and book tables, ingle 
nooks and a fine big fireplace provided every sort 
of pleasure and comfort, and here Mary Howland 
spent much of her time. 

“Angela,” she said, “why do you smoke ciga¬ 
rettes? I never did.” 

“Why, I won’t, mother, if you’d rather I didn’t. 
It’s only habit, everybody did in France, and most 
people do over here. But I’m not crazy about it,—- 
just as lief give it up as not.” 

“Oh, no; do as you like,—I don’t really car,e.” 
And so the girl went on lighting her cigarette, and 
the flame of the match illuminated her thoughtful 
little face. 

“Mother,” she said, “I want you to try to think 
up all you can about my babyhood. Tell me every 
196 


Conrad Remembers 


197 


little incident you can remember, no matter how 
trivial. For a great and clever detective is going 
to look into things,—and if you and I play our 
cards right, maybe we can make him decide that I 
am your Angela child,—and maybe he’ll let me take 
my own name and use it. I’m tired of being called 
Miss Campbell,—when I’m really Angela How¬ 
land.” 

“How do you do, Angela Howland,” said a new 
voice, and from the terrace a girl slid into the room 
and toward them. 

Slid seemed the only word to express her swift, 
noiseless glide, and as she dropped among the cush¬ 
ions of a chaise longue, she seemed like a wraith or 
pixie, so slight of figure was she, and so eerie of 
face. 

Her skin was very dark, even sallow, and her 
black hair was parted and drawn down at the sides 
in Italian fashion. Yet she was not Italian, her 
speech was decidedly American, both in voice and 
accent 

“I’m Zizi,” she said, and smoothed down her little 
black frock, which, though short and scant, yet 
seemed ample for her tiny slenderness. 

“How do you do, Zizi?” and the girl she called 
Angela Howland flashed a smile at her. “Did you 
drop from an airship?” 

“Oh, no, I walked up from the village. I wanted 
to see you and Mrs. Howland this morning.” 

She looked gravely yet courteously toward Mary 
Howland, who smiled back at her, and said: 


198 Wheels Within Wheels 


“You have some errand ?” 

“Yes;” again the girl’s bird claw of a hand 
fingered her frock, not nervously, but as if the 
smoothing of the fabric pleased her. 

“Yes,” she repeated, “I have an errand. It is to 
put Angela Howland on the map.” 

Ida Campbell laughed outright at the slang phrase, 
which sounded incongruous on the lips of this queer 
little scrap of humanity. 

“I like your errand,” she said, nodding her head 
in approval, “I surely hope you accomplish it. I 
know who you are now. You’re Mr. Wise’s as¬ 
sistant.” 

“Yes,” and the sharp black eyes snapped, “and 
I’m an assistant that assists! Now, first of all, I 
want you to like me.” 

“I do that already,” Ida smiled; “doesn’t every¬ 
body?” 

“Oh, Lordy, no! Fur frummit! But the people 
I like usually like me.” 

“I like you,” said Mary Howland, in her soft 
voice, that always seemed to have a far-away sound, 
as if the brain that prompted the words was still 
at a distance. “I like you because you’re going to 
help us. I think, with you to help, we can succeed.” 

“Of course we can!” and the sharp little brown 
face fairly twitched in determination. 

It was easily seen that this queer person was a 
bundle of nerves. All her motions were quick and 
sudden, yet not jerky. She was a live wire, and her 


Conrad Remembers 199 

snapping black eyes flew from one face to the other 
of her auditors as she began to detail her plans. 

“First of all, Mrs. Howland”—her crisp little 
voice grew gentler as she addressed the older woman 
—“I want you to recall everything you can about 
your baby, Angela. Tell me stories of her—” 

“Just what I was asking as you came in!” ex¬ 
claimed Ida Campbell. “Let me help, too.” 

“Of course you’ll help,” said Zizi, “you’re to do 
most of it.” 

“But I can’t remember anything very special,” 
Mrs. Howland said, wrinkling her brows in a pa¬ 
thetic effort to do what was asked of her. “You 
see, Angela was just a normal baby,—she played 
with her dolls and ate her bread and milk like any 
child would.” 

“Yes,—and then she grew ill—” Zizi spoke care¬ 
fully, yet determinedly leading the thought of the 
mother. 

“Yes,—that dreadful illness! Lots of the chil¬ 
dren here had it—” 

“I know,—it was epidemic.” 

“Yes, it was. Encephalitis lethargica.” 

The two girls gasped as these words fell easily 
from Mrs. Howland’s tongue. 

But Zizi said, quickly, “That’s right. That’s the 
scientific name for sleeping sickness.” 

“Yes, and Angela had it, and she slept and slept 
—oh, for days and nights—and years—and 
years—” 


200 Wheels Within Wheels 

The clouded mind wandered a little, and Ida 
Campbell said: 

“Must you bother her? Poor dear, it distresses 
her so.” 

“Must,” Zizi said, doggedly. “And then your 
baby died—” 

“They told me so, afterward,—but I was ill at 
the time. I didn’t know anything about it till some 
time afterward.” 

“Never mind, I’ll get all that from Doctor 
Avery,” and Zizi nodded her sagacious little head. 
“Now, tell me more yet of the baby. Could she 
talk?” 

“Oh, yes, she was five years old. But she couldn’t 
talk plainly,—she didn’t lisp exactly, but she had 
funny little words of her own.” 

“Was she a good child ?” 

“Yes, of course. But determined. And self- 
willed. Probably because as an only child she was 
overindulged by both her parents—” 

“And her nurse as well ?” 

“Yes,—though Lane was more strict with her 
than I was. Nurse said it was for the baby’s good, 
—and of course it was.” 

“How did she show this self-will? Cry?” 

“Oh, no, Angela never was a cry-baby. But if 
she didn’t like anything, she’d discard it. ’If she 
didn’t like any visitor, she walk out of the room 
and refuse to come back. If I took her calling, and 
the people didn’t please her, she’d declare she was 
going home,—and she’d go.” 


Conrad Remembers 


201 


“All alone?” 

“She’d run out of the door alone,'—she was 
usually brought back,—or taken home.” 

“As to nicknames?” It was Ida who spoke. 
“What did she call herself?” 

“Andy,—always Andy.” 

“Did you ever hear of Ida Holmes?” 

“Not till you came,” Mary Howland smiled 
fondly at her. “You are Ida Holmes Campbell,— 
they say. But I know you are Angela. Don’t you 
remember your babyhood at all? Don’t you re¬ 
member your little blue silk bonnet? With shirred 
brim and tiny pink roses? Don’t you remember 
that?” 

“Oh, yes,—I do!” and Ida’s tone was eager. 

But to Zizi’s trained attention, the girl’s eyes 
showed no recognition,—rather it was an effort to 
recall the bonnet, and a forced belief that she had 
done so. A real vision of that bonnet would have 
made Ida’s eyes gleam suddenly. 

“Now as to Conrad.” Zizi had quite evidently 
made herself acquainted with all the points of the 
case. “Was he fond of the baby? Your baby?” 

“Conrad is a strange boy,” Mary Howland spoke 
rationally enough now; “he is harmless and he is 
devoted to all children and animals. Yes, he loved 
my baby, and I was never afraid to have him with 
her. But Mr. Howland objected to it, and so it 
was rarely allowed.” 

“Did he ever carry her ?” 

“Carry her? Oh, no! We would not have let 


202 Wheels Within Wheels 

him do that. But he would sometimes walk beside 
her baby carriage or hover about when Lane had 
her out walking. I’m sure he never touched her.” 

“He did,” said Ida, a little obstinately. “I have 
only the vaguest recollection of it, but I am sure 
that boy carried me somewhere—sometime.” 

“Anybody else with you?” asked Zizi, casually. 

“No,—we were alone—it was dark,—” 

“Oh, no, dear,” and Mary Howland smiled. 
“That couldn’t be. You dreamed it.” 

“It may be a childhood dream that has somehow 
stuck in your memory,” Zizi said, thoughtfully. 
“Now I want to tackle Nurse Lane. Where can I 
see her?” 

“Go and fetch her, Angela, won’t you?” and 
Mary Howland turned to the girl she believed to 
be her daughter. “I want to hear anything Lane 
says.” 

Ida returned with the nurse, and it was easily 
seen that the woman came unwillingly. 

“So you’re a detective!” she began, as she looked 
scornfully at Zizi. “Fine looking one, I must say!” 

“Yes, a fine one in every way,” Zizi responded, 
coolly. “Moreover, I’m a mind reader,—so, if you 
please, Nurse Lane, speak the truth, or I shall know 
it!” 

“Hoity-toity! A pert enough young miss! I’d 
like you to know that it’s my habit to speak truth!” 

“Stick to your habit then. What do you know 
of Ida Holmes?” 

Only Zizi’s eyes saw the least quiver of the stern 


Conrad Remembers 203 

mouth of the nurse, for it was instantly quelled, and 
she said, in even tones, “I know nothing of the 
young lady, except that she appeared here with a 
preposterous story, claiming to be the child Angela, 
whom I used to nurse.” 

“Why do you think she isn’t that child?” 

“Because I saw the little one die and I saw her 
in her casket. How then can it be possible ?” 

“You saw her die?” 

“I did.” 

“Who else was present ?” 

“No one else. Her mother was very ill, and Mr. 
Howland was at his wife’s bedside.” 

“Did he know the little girl was so low ?” 

“I don’t think so. But everything was so upset, 
Mrs. Howland was so very ill, the doctors were all 
driven to death by the epidemic, and nothing was 
normal.” 

“I see,” and Zizi nodded. “It was all excitement 
and hurry, and the baby, who had been sleeping so 
long, just slipped away almost unobservedly.” 

“Just that, miss,” Nurse Lane spoke reminis¬ 
cently. “And the house all upside down, servants 
leaving just when they were needed most, we were 
very short-handed, and I had all I could do to keep 
things going at all. Then there were poor folks 
in the village who needed help, and Mr. Howland 
was a great man for benefactions. So it came 
about that I was all alone with our little girl when 
she died. It was not unlooked for, we had known 
what the end must be. Why, Doctor Avery had 


204 Wheels Within Wheels 

time for no more than the shortest look-in, just to 
make sure that she was dead, then he had to go 
right back to Mrs. Howland. He told me to call 
Stryker—” 

“The idiot!” exclaimed Zizi. 

“Oh, no, ma'am, but the boy's father. He's our 
village undertaker. Well, he came as soon as he 
could, and he took the little body down to his rooms. 
There was many another poor little one taken there 
that night.” 

“And the casket was sent off to New Jersey that 
night?” Zizi asked. 

“I don’t know about that,—but it was sent off 
soon. It all sounds heartless, to tell of it,—but there 
was so much to do,—new cases breaking out all the 
time,—our duty was to the living—not to the dead.” 

“And you had the care of Mrs. Howland?” 

“Oh, no, there were trained nurses for her,—four 
of them.” 

“But they had nothing to do with the little girl ?” 

“Nothing.” Nurse Lane set her lips together. 
“I was in charge in the nursery and I wanted none 
of their help. And there was nothing to do,” she 
added, by way of self-exoneration; “Doctor Avery 
had told me that.” 

“And Doctor Avery has told me that many times 
since,” said Mary Howland, whose perfectly ra¬ 
tional moments were becoming more and more fre¬ 
quent. “The doctor’s story of my baby's death is 
exactly the same as Lane's. But I know now that 
Angela wasn't really dead,—only a deep sleep. 


Conrad Remembers 205 

Poor Doctor Avery was worn out and nearly dead 
himself from overwork and exhaustion. So he let 
my baby be taken to the undertaker’s, and she was 
put in her little casket,—but,—before that casket 
was put into the ground, somehow,—some way, my 
baby got out of it,—and here she is!” 

The tone was one of triumph, and though the 
accompanying laughter had an hysterical ring, yet 
Mary Howland was in full control of her senses, 
and showed no sign of an unbalanced mind. She 
put her arm round Ida Campbell, and her glance 
bespoke defiance to any one who might try to sepa¬ 
rate them. 

“Come with me, Nurse,” and, jumping up sud¬ 
denly, Zizi put her skinny little arm through the large 
round one of Lane. Surprised into acquiescence, the 
nurse went off with the strange girl, and they dis¬ 
appeared inside the house, just as Pennington Wise 
came into the sun parlor through an outside door. 

“Will you introduce me to your mother, Miss— 
Howland?” he said, and, though he made a slight 
pause before the name, yet he spoke it clearly, and 
with a smile at Ida Campbell. 

“Yes, indeed,” she said gayly, and then, “Mother 
dear, this is Mr. Wise, the great detective who is 
going to get me my recognition and my rights.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary Howland said, for, as 
always after a scent of excitement, she was tired 
and therefore a trifle less clear-minded, “you are my 
baby,—my darling, and nothing anybody can say or 
do can make you more so.” 


206 Wheels Within Wheels 

“But we want to make it clear to other people,” 
Wise said, and then, turning to the girl, “Your 
mother is tired, don’t let’s bother her. Can you not 
leave her,—shortly, and go with me for a walk?” 

“Yes, of course; I’ll call Etta.” 

So Mary Howland was given over to her maid,, 
while Ida Campbell willingly set forth with the de¬ 
tective. 

“It’s this way,” Wise began, as they strolled 
across the terrace, down toward the orchard, “I am 
always attracted by a case with a double mystery. 
Here we have the death of Ralph Howland and the 
question of your own personality. I am by no 
means sure Mr. Howland was murdered,—and, I 
am by no means sure you are Angela Howland.” 

The big dark eyes turned to him in utter astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Why,” she cried, “why—Mr. Wise,—I thought 
you were going to help me. I thought—” 

“I am going to help you,—but only if you are 
going to tell me the truth—and, all the truth. Are 
you ready to do that?” 

The girl took several steps in silence, looking 
straight ahead of her. 

Wise fell back a pace, and watched the graceful 
figure as she walked thoughtfully along. She wore 
no hat, but she was wrapped in a coat of soft gray 
material, edged with black fur. 

Suddenly she drew the collar up, her little pointed 
chin sinking in the soft fur, and, turning quickly, 
she faced him. 


Conrad Remembers 207 

“Mr. Wise, if you are a detective, you will know 
whether I tell you the truth or not.” 

“Not necessarily. If you make a statement that 
I cannot prove or disprove, I am not clairvoyant 
that I can know the truth. But why, Miss Camp¬ 
bell, should you tell anything but the truth ?” 

“Because the truth is not sufficient, such of it as 
is known, to carry my point,—to prove my case.” 

“And so you think to do it by resorting to false¬ 
hood?” 

“Not falsehood,—oh, no!” 

“What, then?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” She spoke almost pettishly. 
“Don’t bother me with foolish questions, just let’s 
get busy on the main issues.” 

“All right, we will. Where is Austin Magee?” 

“I haven’t the least idea,—no, wait, that isn’t quite 
true. I have an idea,—but it is merely imagination 
on my part. Merely a thought,—fathered by a wish. 
And,—I expect you to believe this,—it is a thought 
better left unspoken,—unhinted at, until,—unless 
something transpires to show it’s a right idea.” 

They were walking on again now, and the piquant 
little face that peeped out from the fur collar was 
looking at him warily,—it almost seemed cautiously. 

Wise studied it. Delightfully oval of contour, 
fresh and rosy of coloring, ingenuously smiling. 
Yet his quick eye saw the touch of the make-up box, 
and his shrewd intelligence discerned the sophisti¬ 
cation that showed in every glance, in each fleeting 
expression. 


208 Wheels Within Wheels 

Lovely, Miss Ida Holmes Campbell certainly was, 
—but she was nobody’s fool. More than that, she 
was positively capable of making other people her 
fools—if occasion arose. 

It was not likely that she could make a fool of 
Pennington Wise, but, that astute gentleman re¬ 
flected, she could come nearer to it than almost any 
one else he had ever seen,—and he must keep his 
wits about him. 

“Can you walk as far as the village ?” he asked. 

“Rather! I often walk there and ba,ck. And a 
day like this I could walk to Jericho !” She drew 
up her fur with that nestling gesture that was so 
engaging, and they walked on at a slightly quick¬ 
ened pace. 

On the way, they talked now of the case, and now 
of the country round about, and again of matters 
and things not connected with either. 

But at any direct question, or at any subtle hint, 
Miss Campbell vouchsafed little or no definite in¬ 
formation that helped Pennington Wise one 
iota. 

They reached Normandale. 

“Any objection to going to Stryker’s?” asked 
Wise. 

“Not the least; come along, it’s on the next block.” 

To the undertaker’s they went, and fouufd the 
proprietor out, and the half-witted Conrad in charge. 

“Do they let that innocent stay here alone?” Wise 
asked, in surprise. 

“Oh, yes,” said Ida. “There’s nothing for him 


Conrad Remembers 209 

to do, you know. He’s just protection against petty 
thieves, I suppose.” 

“Conrad in charge,” said the youth himself, with 
a wide vacant smile. “Father back soon,—Conrad 
looks after all—all right—all right.” 

He spoke in a peculiar sing-song, uninflected tone, 
and gave his words almost a rhythm by the use of 
repetition. 

“Who is this, Conrad ?” asked Wise, suddenly, in¬ 
dicating Ida. 

“Andy,—little Andy, little, little Andy—” 

“You know her?” 

“Used to. Long ago,—long, long ago. Used to 
carry her—carry her—” 

“Where did you carry her?” 

“Through the street,—the village streets,—Main 
Street, Lee Avenue,—Carter Street,—Carter Street, 
—Carter Street—” 

“Do stop him!” cried Ida. “I can’t bear that 
crooning!” 

“Nice Andy—nice, dear little baby Andy—” 

“Don’t touch me!” Ida cried, and then, as if fas¬ 
cinated, she looked into the half-wit’s staring eyes. 
“I remember!” she cried, in a half-scared whisper; 
“I remember, Conrad,—do you?” 

“Yes,” he said. 


CHAPTER XV 
Utter Defeat 


I DA HOLMES CAMPBELL was carrying 
things with a high hand. She declared her¬ 
self mistress of Howlands, daughter of the 
house and inheritor of the estate. 

Esterbrook told her no legal or positive settle¬ 
ments could be made until Magee could be found, 
or some other executor appointed by the courts, 
which would be a long and complicated process. 

“Begin on it,” Ida said, “and go ahead as fast as 
you can. Then if Mr. Magee turns up, there’s no 
harm done.” 

The girl adjudged Mary Howland as unable to 
cope with the problems of housekeeping, and she 
herself assumed them, in so far as there were any 
outside of the province of the capable Martin. This 
admirable functionary was Ida’s devoted slave, and 
his decisions always carried weight with the other 
servants. 

Ida elected to sit at the head of the table, deciding 
that even that responsibility was too much for Mary 
Howland, and, as a matter of fact, Mary was re¬ 
lieved to be merely a passive member of the family. 

The love and sympathy between the two who 
claimed to be mother and daughter was perfect 
and seemed 49 strengthen from day to day. In a 
210 


Utter Defeat 211 

word, if this efficient and capable young woman 
were really Angela Howland she was only taking 
her right place and filling it to perfection. 

If she were not,—then it was the biggest piece of 
barefaced effrontery that could well be imagined. 

Leonard Swift fretted and fumed and used some 
very strong language, even in the hearing of the 
girl herself. 

But she only laughed,—her light, ringing little 
laugh that charmed Swift, even while it exasperated 
him. 

“Why don’t you do something, Mr. Swift?” she 
mocked him. “Why don’t you put me out? Why 
don’t you prove I don’t belong here? Why don’t 
you make good your own claim?” Then she grew 
more serious. “The very fact, Leonard Swift, that 
you accept my presence here,—my authority here,— 
is because you know I am in my rightful place—” 

“Nothing of the sort,” he fairly sputtered; “right¬ 
ful place, indeed! You are an impostor, and an 
adventuress! That’s what you are! You’re getting 
away with it for the moment,—but you’re riding to 
a fall!” 

A look of sudden fear came into Ida’s eyes, but 
she quickly smiled and said gayly, “Then I must 
enjoy my ride before the fall comes! You’re here 
as a visitor, Mr. Swift,—as my guest,” she dropped 
him a saucy curtsey, “and while you may stay as 
long as it pleases you, remember you are but a 
guest.” 

“I’m not likely to forget it, while you’re around, 


212 Wheels Within Wheels 

—but, Miss—whoever you are! you won’t be here 
very long!” 

“No?” 

“No! I am by no means idle in this investiga¬ 
tion business,—I’m doing a little sleuthing on my 
own,—and if I were to tell you what I found in 
Magee’s room—” 

“What?” she breathed the word, as her face paled. 
“What?” 

“Never you mind. I shall tell it only to Wise. 
He’s the one to hear it.” 

“Where is Mr. Magee?” she said, so suddenly 
that he was taken by surprise. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, “don’t you know?” 

“No,” she said, “I haven’t the slightest idea where 
he is.” 

And there was a ring of truth in her voice, a look 
of sincerity in her eyes, that made Swift, rather a 
good reader of character, believe her implicitly. 

Yet that very afternoon he met her unexpectedly 
coming out of the village post-office. 

She looked flurried,—and had a furtive air, as if 
he were the last person in the world she wanted to 
meet just then. His curiosity was stirred, and, turn¬ 
ing, he walked along by her side. 

“Bothered?” he said, watching her closely. “A 
little anxious as to your plans working out ?” 

“My plans always work out,” she said, coldly, 
and then with a sudden change of demeanor she 
smiled at him and looked up into his face with a 
confidential air. 


Utter Defeat 213 

“Let’s be friendly,” she said; “let’s work together. 
Say we both try to find out the truth. If you can 
prove I'm not Angela, I’ll renounce my claim.” 

“Nonsense, I haven’t to prove anything. If you 
can prove you are Angela, I’ll renounce my claim.” 

“Will you help me prove it, then?” 

Now Leonard Swift wanted her claim proved 
about as much as he wanted another World War,— 
but her cajoling little face was beginning to mean a 
lot to him, and he let his eyes linger on it a second 
too long for his own powers of resistance. 

“I’ll help you,” he said, impulsively, “and, at any 
rate, we may get at the truth.” 

“Let’s go to see Conrad,” said Ida, suddenly, as 
they neared the undertaker’s shop. 

“Oh, no;” Swift shuddered. “I can’t bear that 
boy,—he gets on my nerves.” 

“Mine, too, but I want to see him. Come along.” 

And so weak-willed is the masculine sex against a 
pretty girl that Swift unwillingly followed her. 

The undertaker’s shop was of the old-fashioned 
type, not at all the modern burial parlors. Yet it 
was not unpleasant. The front room showed a few 
finished caskets on trestles, and through the open 
door to the back room could be seen the trimmer’s 
bench and the carpenter shop. 

Conrad sat in a big comfortable rocker by a win¬ 
dow. It was his favorite haunt, and when not roam¬ 
ing about the village or across country, he was 
usually to be found there. Harmless and inoffen¬ 
sive, long years of training had enabled him to 


214 Wheels Within Wheels 

“watch shop” and that was the only thing he 
could do. 

He looked up at his visitors, and, without rising, 
began to rock vigorously and imitated the hushing 
of a child to sleep. 

“There, there,” he said soothingly, “all right,— 
all right. By, by, baby.” 

Ida looked at him, thoughtfully. 

“He always does that when I come near him,” 
she said. “To my mind, it proves he carried me 
about when I was little. I wish Nurse Lane would 
be decent to me. She could tell me a lot,—but she 
won’t even speak to me on the subject.” 

“Proof against your story,” Swift said, bluntly, 
for though unwillingly attracted to this buoyant 
young thing, he had no intention of believing in her 
veracity. 

“Conrad,” she said, suddenly, “you knew Mr. 
Howland ?” 

“Misser Howland? Yes, yes, oh,—yes! I liked 
him,—but he is dead.” 

“Who killed him?” 

“Who? Who? Not angel lady,—no,—she loved 
him. Gay Girl? Maybe. Maybe. She was there, 
—oh, yes, Gay Girl was there.” 

Ida Campbell’s eyes glistened. She knew Gay 
Girl was Edith Mills. 

“No, no, of course Gay Girl didn’t kill him. Who 
else was there?” 

“All everybody. Company men and ladies. 


Utter Defeat 215 

Misser Magee, Misser Swift,—Martin,—oh,—all 
everybody.” 

“And you were on the porch all the time ?” 

“Long time,—for you see, bad storm,—oh, very 
bad storm.” 

“You remember it all?” 

“All of all.” 

She turned to Swift. 

“That chap knows more than we think. I believe 
he can give us some help. But I don’t want to quiz 
him,—you do it.” 

“No, I don’t want to, either. And it wouldn’t 
mean anything. He was there, on the porch, 
throughout the storm. We know that. But nothing 
he could say would have any real weight.” 

“But if he saw it,—if he saw Mr. Howland killed, 
—it would probably make a more definite impres¬ 
sion on his poor mind than ordinary occurrences, 
and he could tell—” 

“No, let’s go away,—I don’t like his looks,—he 
may harm you.” 

And in truth, the half-wit had changed in man¬ 
ner. He rose from his chair, and stalked about the 
place, beating his long, strong arms against the air, 
and coming toward Ida Campbell, as he crooned, 
“Little A'ndy,—dear little baby Andy,—all right— 
all right—” 

His eyes were wild, his face unpleasantly smiling, 
and Ida was glad to follow Swift’s advice and leave 
the place. 


216 Wheels Within Wheels 


“Pm going to call on the Garside girls, and you 
may go home,” she said, as they reached the 
street. 

“Oh, thank you!” he returned, and, raising his hat 
with a sardonic grin at this summary dismissal, he 
left her. 

Though not yet taken up by many of the village 
people, Miss Campbell had made a number of 
friends, mostly the dear friends of Mary Howland. 
As she turned into the side street, Leonard Swift 
watched her a moment and then walked rapidly off 
in the direction of the post-office. 

“Miss Campbell sent me here, to look at that tele¬ 
graph message she sent about half an hour ago. 
She’s afraid she made a mistake in the address. 
Let me see the copy, will you ?” 

“Sure,” said the spinster postmistress,—“but it 
wasn’t a telegram, it was a cablegram.” 

She spoke with pride, for cables were not of daily 
occurrence in Normandale. 

“Yes, that’s the one I mean,” and in a moment 
Swift was reading the words that Ida Campbell had 
herself written just before he chanced to meet her 
coming out of the post-office. 

And he read: 

“To Austin Magee, Hotel L’Athenee, Paris, 
France.” That was the address, and the message 
consisted of but one word, “Phonograph.” There 
was no signature, and Swift stared at it. 

Phonograph, he concluded at once, was merely a 
code word and might mean anything. But that very 


Utter Defeat 217 

morning Ida had told him, and he had believed her, 
that she had no idea where Magee was! 

She had told a direct falsehood, and if she could 
do that with such a convincing air of innocence, 
she was a girl to beware of. 

Impostor, of course. Adventuress, of course. In 
cahoots with Magee, of course. But more difficult 
to circumvent, more tricky to cope with than Swift 
had heretofore thought. 

That evening Pennington Wise summoned them 
to the library to hear his report. 

He had been on the case a little more than a week, 
but he had up to now divulged none of his findings. 

He looked grave, as, sitting at Ralph Howland’s 
desk, he watched his audience gather. 

There were only Ida Campbell, Leonard Swift 
and Edith Mills to come in, but each of these showed 
an air of expectancy, and Wise scanned them with 
interest. 

Esterbrook, the lawyer, was already in the library, 
as was also Zizi, the funny little assistant of the 
detective. 

This strange girl, little more than a child, was 
like an elf or pixie. She roamed at will over the 
Howland house, she appeared suddenly from no¬ 
where, and vanished as inexplicably. 

Yet she was clever, intuitive, almost clairvoyant, 
and often caught hints or suggestions that but for 
her Wise would have missed. 

“While I am not yet in possession of all the facts, 
nor am I through with my investigations,” the de- 


218 Wheels Within Wheels 

tective began, “yet I have discovered many impor¬ 
tant things. To begin with, I am positive that Ralph 
Howland was murdered,—and I have indications 
of evidence that points to the murderer/’ 

Everybody looked startled. 

“I didn’t say evidence,” Wise observed. “I said 
indications of evidence.” 

“My lay mind can’t grasp the difference,” said 
Swift, a little unpleasantly. 

“Yet it’s easy,” Wise went on. “As is pretty well 
known, Mr. Howland was killed by the diabolically 
clever means of breaking a capsule or bulb of poison 
gas,—cyanogen, to be exact, right under his nose. 
This gas may be compressed into a tiny glass tube 
or bulb, and a mere whiff of it is instantly fatal.” 

“Excuse me,” said Swift, more politely than he 
had spoken before, “why wasn’t the murderer also 
affected by the fumes?” 

“A's I said, he was diabolically clever. Therefore 
he took precautions against such a happening. 
What they were I don’t know, but it would be an 
easy matter for him to crush the tiny bulb under 
his victim’s nose while he held his own nose until 
he could hasten to an open window.” 

“Or he could wear a gas mask,” said Swift, 
thoughtfully. 

“He could have done so, but that would have 
meant more elaborate preparation. I don’t think we 
need any more evidence of this than the pieces of 
glass Miss Campbell found on his desk, and the tiny 


Utter Defeat 219 

cut on the cheek of the dead man, made, obviously, 
as his head fell forward in death.” 

“Strange Miss Campbell should have been the one 
to find those bits,” Swift murmured, but if any one 
heard him no remark was made. 

“Next,” said Wise, “a few of those bulbs have 
been found”—he paused—“in the room of Mr. 
Austin Magee.” 

Leonard Swift’s eyes seemed to bulge from his 
head. His expression was a mixture of surprise and 
ill-concealed triumph. He glanced at Ida. 

She was calm and collected, but there was no sign 
of her habitual smile. 

Esterbrook listened in a judicial silence. 

“That is what I mean by an indication of evi¬ 
dence,” Wise continued. “The finding of the in¬ 
criminating bulbs may be evidence against Mr. 
Magee,—or they may have been placed there to indi¬ 
cate evidence against him.” 

“That’s so,” and Swift looked enlightened. “But, 
of course, Mr. Wise, you can distinguish between 
real and ‘planted’ clews?” 

“I hope to, but the case is far from clear. Mr. 
Magee’s inexplicable disappearance, his failure to 
arrange for the execution of the will, his disagree¬ 
ment with Mr. Howland regarding the mining 
project,—and, his possible collusion in the matter 
of bringing forward Miss Campbell as the heiress of 
the Howland estate all need inquiry.” 

“I should say so!” exclaimed Swift, and the more 


220 Wheels Within Wheels 

conservative Esterbrook said, “It all looks peculiar 
to me.” 

“Now, that’s where that matter stands,” Wise 
said, as he noted the attitudes of his various hearers. 
“As you know, the question of Miss CampbeH’s 
identity is also part of my work here, and for the 
present, I am treating them as separate issues. I 
don’t say they may not prove to be connected, but 
they require separate investigation. My assistant, 
Zizi, has been paying more attention to the latter 
than I have, for I have been engrossed with the 
murder mystery. Zizi has a theory,—maybe more 
than a theory, I may call it a discovery. But the 
application of it is so difficult of belief—” 

“Not at all,” Zizi said in her quiet, yet insistent 
way. “It would be far more difficult not to believe 
it. Here it is.” 

Zizi sat on a small chair, her thin little scrap of 
a figure hunched up together as she hugged her knees 
with her thin arms. She sat next Edith Mills and 
was a comical contrast to that well-nourished, almost 
robust young woman. 

Zizi’s birdlike head cocked itself around from one 
to another as she talked, and her equally birdlike 
black eyes darted from face to face. 

“It’s so easy,” she said, “so plain. Here’s your 
foolish Conrad with a mania for letting caged 
things free. Why, he let out the canary bird the 
night of Mr. Howland’s death. I’m told that’s a 
fact.” 

Both Esterbrook and Swift nodded assent 


Utter Defeat 221 

“Well, then, he is in the habit of tending shop 
at his father’s rooms. During that awful epidemic, 
when all was turmoil, haste and confusion, the little 
Angela, supposed dead, was in her white casket at 
the shop. Conrad, in charge, heard a sound, and 
flew to liberate the imprisoned child. He opened 
the casket, took out the awakening baby, and—” 

“I, for one,” exclaimed Swift, “refuse to listen to 
any more of this balderdash!” 

“You may be excused, then,” and Zizi’s eyes 
flashed at him. “The story must be told. Then 
that boy, who had heard,—who knew that Angela 
Howland was to be sent away on the train,—then 
he, with his poor beclouded brain working as best 
it could,—he carried her to the railroad station.” 

“Bless my soul!” cried Esterbrook, “how do you 
know that?” 

“Here’s how I know it. Conrad said he carried 
the baby through the streets,—through Main Street, 
—Lee Avenue, Carter Street,—and that route, from 
Stryker’s shop, leads as you all know, direct to the 
station!” She looked around triumphantly. “Then, 
the poor half-witted boy put the little one on the 
train, and, to his broken mind, he thought he had 
done what he calls ‘all right—all right—all right.’ 
Then, you see, Miss Jane Campbell found the baby, 
—in her berth,—where Conrad had placed the child. 
Then,—and here’s the point of it all, then Miss Jane 
Campbell waited to hear of a lost child. Seeing 
nothing in the papers of such a thing, she adver¬ 
tised for herself, but got no replies. Why? Be- 


222 Wheels Within Wheels 

cause nobody supposed the Howland baby was miss¬ 
ing !” 

Esterbrook was a logical-minded lawyer, of judi¬ 
cial temperament. Moreover, he was quick of de¬ 
cision. He gave Zizi a look of the most utter scorn 
that she had ever experienced. As she told Wise 
afterward, it blighted her very soul. 

“Pure poppycock,” Esterbrook said. “Absolute 
rubbish. As your lawyer, Mr. Swift, I advise you 
to put a stop to this sort of investigation.” 

“I certainly shall,” and Swift’s tone was as de¬ 
cided as his adviser’s. “Mr. Wise, you may con¬ 
tinue the case, if you choose, but I must ask you 
to allow no further foolishness of this sort from 
your young helper.” 

“But it’s true!” cried Ida Campbell, her face 
flushed with excitement, “it’s true! I remember it! 
It all comes back to me!” 

“You’d say that, anyway,” put in Edith Mills, 
contemptuously. “Tell me, Miss Ida Campbell, 
didn’t you say to Mrs, Howland the other day, Tf 
we play our cards right, we’ll yet make them believe 
I’m Angela!’ Didn’t you say that ? But you needn’t 
answer, for you’d only deny it, whereas I heard 
you say it,—I swear it.” 

As Edith Mills’s abnormally acute hearing was 
well known, nobody doubted her statement. Least 
of all Ida Campbell herself, for she knew she had 
said that very thing. 

“And anyway,” Pennington Wise summed up, “if 
all this assumption of Zizi’s should be true, if Con- 


Utter Defeat 


223 


rad did liberate the baby and carry her to safety, 
it is no proof that Miss Campbell is the baby in 
question/’ 

The face of Ida Campbell was a study. Fleeting 
expressions of hope and despair, of possible suc¬ 
cess and blank failure alternated on her changing 
countenance while her eyes traveled round the room, 
vainly seeking a friend. 

“The jig is up,” Swift said to her, bluntly, “but 
I ask permission to take Miss Campbell out of the 
room for a moment, before the matter goes any 
further.” 

As if incapable of resistance the girl followed him 
to the next room. “Miss Campbell,” he began, 
quickly, “Ida,—your plot has failed,—your scheme 
has fallen through. Now here’s your way out. 
Give up all claim to inheritance or heirship, admit 
you’re not Angela, but—stay here as—my wife.” 

“Oh,” she gasped, “oh—oh—” and the look of 
utter abhorrence in her lovely eyes answered him. 

“Then go!” he exclaimed, furious at her scorn. 
“Go—” 

“I shall not go! I will stay and yet prove—” 

“Stay”—he whispered low—“stay—and prove 
Austin Magee a murderer!” 

This told. There was a moment’s silence, and 
then a broken, a pitiful little voice said,—“I’ll go,— 
yes, I’ll go.” 

And, in triumph, Swift led her back to tell of her 
utter defeat. Nor did any one combat her decision 
or espouse her cause. 


CHAPTER XVI 

Swift’s Ultimatum 


Y ET not as a vanquished combatant did Ida 
Holmes Campbell leave the library and go 
upstairs to her own room. 

She walked out with a firm step, with her proud 
little head held high and her hazel eyes glinting with 
defiance, even though the hot tears were already 
welling up in them. 

She composed herself sufficiently to go in and 
say good night to Mary Howland in her usual cheery 
manner. 

“Dear, dear Angela,” Mary said, as the girl 
clasped her in a closer embrace than ever before. 
“How dear you are to me.” 

“Shall we give it up and go away from here, 
mother? Or shall we continue our fight to stay?” 

“As you choose, my darling. I want whatever 
you want. But you are worried,—anxious,—what 
has happened?” 

“Nothing. It’s all right. Good night, now, 
mother,—sweetheart,—here comes Lane tp look 
after you.” 

The old nurse entered, a flame of jealousy light¬ 
ing her eyes as she saw the affectionate parting. 

“I’m told you’re shown up,—Miss Campbell,” 
she said, insolently. 


224 


Swift’s Ultimatum 225 

“Nurse”—and instead of exhibiting resentment 
the girl went close to Lane and put her hands on her 
shoulder—“Nurse, dear, you can save me. Why 
won’t you? You know I am Angela,—you have 
real proof and you withhold it. For the sake of 
mother,—for the sake of the little baby you used to 
love,—won’t you tell what you know?” 

The soft voice was coaxing, even wheedlesome, 
and Lane’s grim features relaxed a trifle as she 
gazed into the beseeching eyes. 

But the very nearness of that eager little face 
showed to the old-fashioned, conservative woman 
the touch of rouge on the cheek, the slight hint of 
carmine on the quivering lips, and her heart hard¬ 
ened toward this young sinner. 

“Not the little Angela I loved,—no, never could 
she grow up to be a brazen-faced, painted hussy like 
you! Be off with you to your room and I hope 
you’ll soon be off from this house!” 

Recoiling, as if from a blow, the girl silently left 
the room and slipped away to her own apartments. 

In her pretty boudoir, with its rose-shaded night 
light, she flung herself on a couch and buried her 
face in a nest of soft pillows. 

Here she gave way to a veritable storm of weep¬ 
ing. Not merely tears, but great, convulsive sobs, 
that seemed to tear her slender frame to pieces. 
Unheeding, she had left her door ajar, and Edith 
Mills coming up, hesitated at the threshold, impelled 
to go in. 

But the girl’s abandonment of woe was so great 


226 Wheels Within Wheels 

that Edith, out of honest compassion, thought she’d 
be better alone, and tiptoed away. 

Half an hour later, Leonard Swift came upstairs. 

Ida was still crying, but the deep sobs had given 
place to little fluttering, choking gasps,—pathetic 
little sounds, that told of exhausted nature as well 
as of a despairing heart. 

Involuntarily, Swift went to the slightly open 
door and listened. 

He hesitated, looked about the dimly lighted hall, 
and then, after a light almost inaudible tap on the 
panel, he stepped inside. 

“Ida,—my darling girl,—let me comfort you,” 
he whispered, as he bent over her. 

She raised her head, and then angrily sprang to 
her feet and faced him. 

“Mr. Swift! How dare you ? Go away at once!” 

Instead of which, Leonard Swift fairly snatched 
her into his arms and covered her tempestuous little 
face with kisses. 

And then, frightened himself at what he had 
dared to do, he held her off at arm’s length and 
whispered, 

“There, my beauty, what have you to say now ?” 

He quailed before the dignity and scorn she 
showed. She deigned no word, but with a gesture 
that would have graced a great tragedy actress, she 
pointed to the door. 

Yet Swift was not so easily managed. 

“Now, now,” he said, “be sensible. Sit down a 
minute and let’s talk things over. This is your sit- 


227 


Swift’s Ultimatum 

ting-room, isn’t it? You can receive me here,—it 
isn’t very late,—and I’ve a few words I must say 
to you, a few things you’ll be glad to hear.” 

“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” and 
she still pointed to the door. 

“Oh, pshaw! Just because I kissed you,—well,— 
I couldn’t help it, it was your own fault for looking 
so confounded pretty. But if you’ll listen to a 
dozen words, I’ll guarantee you’ll want me to go on 
with my talk. First, Miss Ida Holmes Campbell, 
do you realize that you’re utterly friendless—and 
alone? Mary Howland doesn’t count, Nurse Lane 
is against you, Esterbrook is, too. Wise and his 
little girl are sure you’re an impostor—” 

“No, oh, no!” 

“Yes, they are. Edith is down on you,—there’s 
nobody to take your part unless you let me do 
so.” . 

“Rather than have you do that, I’d—” 

“Wait a minute,—wait a minute, now. I say 
there’s nobody to take your part unless you let me, 
—and, there’s no one to take Magee’s part—unless 
I do.” 

She stared at him, wide-eyed, while her lips quiv¬ 
ered in torture. 

“Yes, ma’am! That strikes home, doesn’t it? 
You little fool! What do you see in Austin Magee 
to bring that look to your eyes? Damn him! Tell 
me,—how could he win you,—in those few weeks— 
But you’ll never see him again!” 

“You said—you’d befriend him—” 


228 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Not that exactly. The only way to befriend 
Magee is to let him alone. I know where he is —” 

“Where ?" 

“You know, too. He's in Paris,—hiding from 
the consequences of his—well, never mind putting 
the crime into words. Now, here's the whole thing 
in a nutshell,—you marry me, and you can be mis¬ 
tress of Howlands, without any more trouble. You 
can have Mary Howland here with you. And,—• 
your precious Magee will be left unmolested by me, 
—or by the police, so long as he keeps out of this 
country." 

“What are you talking about ? He did no crime ? 
He’s in no danger!" 

“Oh, isn't he ? That's all you know about it! I 
know a lot, that the Wise fool doesn’t dream of. 
And, this I swear to you, I'll track Austin Magee to 
the chair,—unless you give me,—right now,—your 
promise to marry me. Why I fell so hard for you, 
I don't know. I think it’s your proud, dauntless 
little spirit even more than your posy face. But I 
love you like a house afire! You are no more 
Angela than you're the Queen of Sheba,—and you 
know it! You made up the plan,—or rather, you 
agreed to the plan Magee devised, and—it didn’t 
work, that's all. So he went off and left you to 
shift for yourself. Better let me shift for you. 
Listen to reason. I know you’re a fraud and a fake, 
but if you marry me, I won’t tell. If you don’t—’’ 

The shrugged shoulders of the man told plainly 
how relentless his revenge would be. 


Swift’s Ultimatum 


229 


Ida Holmes Campbell took a step backward. 

She looked at the man in front of her with cool 
appraisal, almost as if he were some strange speci¬ 
men of natural history. 

“Have you finished?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is my ultimatum.” 

“And this is mine. I reject your offer of mar¬ 
riage. I decline your offer of friendship. I have 
no interest whatever in your future proceedings 
or machinations, and—I defy you! More, I scorn 
you! Yes, I scorn you too much even to detest 
you,—I consider you too worthless, too insignifi¬ 
cant,—even to resent your kissing me. One does not 
resent an insult from a nonentity!” 

She stood, like a small but very superior goddess, 
and the disdain in her fearless eyes was unmixed 
with any apprehension or even interest. 

And, such is the inconsistency of man, Leonard 
Swift’s love for her increased tenfold. 

“You wonder!” he breathed, lost in admiration of 
this slip of a girl who dared him so dauntlessly. 
“Good night for now, but don’t think for a minute 
I’m giving you up. I’ll win you yet,—or, what hap¬ 
pens toA’ustin Magee will make you wish I had!” 

He went softly away, and as Ida mechanically 
closed the door after him, Edith Mills’ door also 
closed noiselessly. 

But Edith Mills could hear through closed doors, 
and she knew, if no one else did, that all through 
that night Miss Campbell alternately walked the floor 
or lay softly sobbing on her bed. 


230 Wheels Within Wheels 


Yet the next morning it was a very composed and 
collected young woman who went downstairs, at¬ 
tired in street costume. 

The little figure, in a smart black tailor-made cos¬ 
tume, with fringes of monkey fur, and a saucy tri¬ 
corne hat, left the house and walked alone to the 
village. 

She presented herself at the Normandale Inn, 
where Pennington Wise was staying. 

“I’ve come to talk business, Mr. Wise,” she said, 
after preliminary greetings. 

“No one I’d rather see, Miss Campbell,” and Wise 
politely saw her settled comfortably and then sat 
down facing her. 

“Yes, let’s talk business,” and appearing, as usual, 
out of nothingness, Zizi crouched on an ottoman at 
Ida’s side. 

Her eerie black eyes fastened themselves on the 
visitor, and her thin little fingers twined among the 
monkey fringes of Ida’s gown. 

“How frank are you going to be with me, Miss 
Campbell ?” and Wise smiled genially at her. 

“As frank as you wish,—I wonder how frank you 
want me to be.” 

“Diplomatic young person! Suppose you tell me 
all you know—” 

“And then will you do all you can?” » 

“You bet I will! Nothing I’d like better!” 

“But I know so little.” 

“I suppose you know whether you’re Angela 
Howland or not.” 


Swift’s Ultimatum 


231 


“No, I don’t,—I haven’t the slightest idea.” 

“H’m. Does anybody know?” 

“Nobody, unless it’s old Granny Green.” 

“She being an imaginary confidant?” 

“Oh, no; she’s a real person. But she’s a bit un¬ 
satisfactory. Stone deaf, stone blind—” 

“And probably stone broke!” 

“Likely. But none of these things bother her. 
However, I’ve tried and I can’t get anything out of 
her. And she’ll keep—” 

“I suppose she has kept a good many years 
already.” 

“Ninety or so. But, Mr. Wise, can’t you find out 
whether I’m Angela or not ?” 

“Do you think you are?” 

“I—I think so with my heart,—but not with my 
mind.” 

“Well,—let’s have details.” 

“You know most of them. But, the trouble is, 
when they accuse Mr. Magee of a—” 

“Plot—scheme?” 

“Yes,—but I don’t like those words. However, 
here’s how it came about. You know how he found 
me—through the dentists’ journals, and then, when 
he came to see me,—he saw no reason to suppose I 
might be Angela Howland except my separated 
front teeth. So,—he said,—” 

“Let’s make a stab at it!” 

Ida laughed. “Well, it was almost that. You see 
there was my story of Miss Campbell’s finding 
me—” 


232 Wheels Within Wheels 


“Did Magee believe all that ?” 

“Oh, yes,—that part’s true—” 

“What part isn’t true?” 

“I didn’t mean it that way,—but,—oh, well, any¬ 
way, Mr. Magee was so anxious to find Angela—” 
“And so anxious that you should be Angela—” 
“That anxiety came later.” She took his words 
seriously. “At first, of course, Mr. Magee thought 
only of finding his employer’s child. And what you 
people call the plot was made up before we—Mr. 
Magee and I—” 

“Fell in love with each other,” Zizi supplied, 
quietly. 

“Yes; and he said that I’d better go to Howlands 
and see if they felt that I was their child. He was 
sure my father would know, even if my mother 
didn’t.” 

“But you never saw Ralph Howland.” 

“No; he died while we were planning this thing. 
You see, I hated to go on such an uncertainty. And 
Mr. Magee said the trial could do no harm, even if 
they failed to keep me. And he did say that if I 
went I must claim to be Angela for that might help 
along to find out the truth. I never meant to claim 
my heritage fraudulently—” 

“Of course you didn’t,” and Zizi patted Ida’s 
hand that she held in her own two little claws. 

“Well, then after Mr. Howland died, Mr. Magee 
said there was all the more reason for me to go, to 
comfort my mother—” 

“If she is your mother.” 


233 


Swift’s Ultimatum 

“Yes; and Mr. Wise, that’s what I want you to 
find out. Surely you can do it. Surely you believe 
my story of the corals, still in Australia, of the little 
clothes there, too,—oh, I wish I could go there 
and get them!” 

“Come on,” Zizi cried, “I’ll go with you!” 

“I doubt if I could find them.” 

“But they’re in storage—” 

“Yes,—but it wasn’t a regular storage warehouse, 
—it was just a room in a neighbor’s house,—and the 
people may all be dead or moved away. It was six¬ 
teen years ago.” 

“Do you know, Miss Campbell,” and Wise looked 
at her very seriously, “your story carries weight with 
me,—just because it has no weight at all!” 

Zizi clapped her skinny little hands. “Of course 
it does!” she cried. “Why, if it wasn’t true,—if it 
was a made-up yarn, she’d say she was sure of her 
identity, and she’d made up a plausible reason for 
not going to Australia, but she’d vow the things 
were there. Also she’d have a lot of data—” 

“Whereas she has almost none,” said Wise. 

“But I have,” Ida said. “I mean Miss Jane told 
me she put it all on record. She said she took the 
records to France with her, and yet, when I went 
over her papers, before I came away I couldn’t find 
any about me. I had another idea—” 

“Look here, Miss Campbell, did Mr. Magee kill 
Ralph Howland ?” 

“Oh, Mr. Wise!” and the girl’s face blanched, 
“what an awful thing to say! Of course not!” 


234 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Yet some of those bulbs were found in his 
room—” 

“Then they were put there—” 

“Not likely. Who could do such a thing ?” 

“The murderer, of course/’ 

“That would imply a person familiar with the 
house, and with unquestioned access to Mr. Magee’s 
room.” 

“All the servants have that.” 

“This crime is too deep for the mental caliber 
of a servant.” 

“Or not deep enough,” Zizi interrupted. “I fully 
believe it was that Conrad who did it. He’s an 
idiot in some ways, but fearfully shrewd in others.” 

“He couldn’t get the things—” 

“Yes, he could, Penny. Now listen. He’s always 
around the doctors’ offices, he’s in and out of the 
drug shop, he’s on a familiar footing with every 
household in the village or on the outskirts, where 
the big estates are. You see, that chap could obtain 
those capsules or bulbs or whatever they are more 
easily than anybody else could.” 

“Could he secrete them in Austin Magee’s room ?” 
asked Ida eagerly. “Would he have wit enough to 
do it?” 

“He might if he were himself in danger of being 
accused. That type of dementia is often possessed 
of great cunning.” 

“Mr. Magee, you know what Zizi said about Con¬ 
rad letting the baby out of the casket. Well, I re¬ 
member it now,—it comes back to me.” 


Swift’s Ultimatum 235 

Wise shook his head, kindly. “Be careful how 
you claim memories after they’re suggested to you. 
If you had remembered that before it was told by 
some one else it would have been important. But— 
it’s easy to recollect suggested memories.” 

“But I do,—I do remember being carried swiftly 
through the dark night and taken into the lighted 
railroad train.” 

“Oh, come now, the train wasn’t so very light at 
midnight, and so long ago, they had very little light 
on the cars, anyway.” 

Wise watched her closely, and Zizi said, “He’s 
trying to catch you,—look out.” 

“I do remember it,” Ida said doggedly. 

“Go on, then, what happened next? Do you re¬ 
member the lady who took you home with her? I 
mean do you remember her on the train?” 

Ida tried hard, but could evolve no definite mem¬ 
ory from the vague and distant past, and Zizi 
sighed. 

“It’s so near being a clear case,” she lamented, 
“and yet it’s not clear at all.” 

“I think,” said Ida, slowly, “if I could talk to 
Conrad again, with all this in mind, I might stir 
some dormant memories.” 

“Well, we can go round and see him,” Wise pro¬ 
posed. “I don’t want to leave a stone unturned.” 

“A'nd then,” Ida went on, “I want to try once 
more to win Nurse Lane over. She knows more 
than she will tell. I can’t help feeling she can prove 
the truth. But she hates me.” 


236 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know of any reason but a foolish jealousy 
of my mother’s love for me. Lane is a queer 
woman, but I’ve not yet quite despaired of getting 
round her somehow.” 

At Wise’s further suggestion the three started for 
the undertaker’s shop. 

About halfway there, they met Leonard Swift, 
walking rapidly. 

“Mr. Wise!” he exclaimed, “the very man I want. 
Conrad, the half-wit is dead. And Doctor Avery, 
who is there, thinks it’s a case similar to Ralph 
Howland’s. Come along, quickly. Miss Campbell, 
let me take you home, won’t you?” 

“I will not,” and Ida spoke decidedly. “Who 
killed the poor chap?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I came down from the 
post-office, and as I passed the shop I saw a crowd 
gathering, and saw Doctor Avery arriving, so I 
went in too.” 

Refusing Swift’s further insistence that she go 
home, Ida pressed through the crowd to get a 
glimpse of the poor unfortunate boy. 

Conrad sat in his old rocking-chair, where he had 
sat so often, and except that his head drooped he 
looked quite as he had looked in life. 

John Stryker, the undertaker, was heartbroken. 
His afflicted son had been the apple of his eye. To 
the doting father the boy had been an unfortunate 
but none the less dear and none the less to be loved 
and cherished. Nor had the villagers ever scoffed 


237 


Swift’s Ultimatum 

at or spurned the boy. He was welcomed at any 
house in the village, and none had an ill word to 
say of him. 

“He wasn't killed, doctor," Stryker was saying; 
“don't tell me he was killed! Who would kill my 
poor innocent ? My poor dear Connie ?" 

“We’ll see, John," and Doctor Avery spoke 
gravely. “I'll have to call Mason over. You go 
home, man, I’ll take charge here." 

And, reluctantly, the stricken father went. 


CHAPTER XVII 

The Chemist’s Statement 


P ENNINGTON WISE was confronted with 
one of the greatest puzzles of his whole 
career. 

To his pleasant sitting-room at the cheery little 
inn came one after another to talk to him, and from 
none could he learn any helpful facts. 

‘Tacts enough,” he said to Zizi, “but none of 
them of any use. Now the logical murderer of 
Ralph Howland is, of course, Magee. He had 
motive—” 

“What was his motive?” Zizi demanded. 

“To get his share of the inheritance, to put the 
fake Angela in power, and then to marry her. 
Clean-cut proceeding enough, if the girl had car¬ 
ried through, as he had instructed her. But when 
she declared herself an impostor, he saw his game 
was up and ran away.” 

“Maybe he went to France to hunt up those rec¬ 
ords of Ida's guardian.” % 

“To begin with, those records are imaginary. 
Second, if his departure was for any honest purpose, 
he would have left word or sent word as to the 
estate and all that.” 

“Maybe he hadn't time—” 

238 


The Chemist’s Statement 239 

“What ails you, Ziz? You’re not so clear-headed 
in this matter as you usually are. You’re prejudiced 
in Ida’s favor because you’ve taken a fancy to the 
girl. Now, she has practically admitted that she 
has no reason to think she’s the missing baby. That 
yarn about Conrad carrying her to the train you 
made up yourself—” 

“It must be true, Penny—” 

“May be, not must be,—with the probabilities all 
against it.” 

“Well, at least, look in some other direction. 
What about Leonard Swift?” 

“As the murderer ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Zizi, you’re crazy. Swift had no reason to kill 
his cousin. He’s the heir, to be sure, but men don’t 
kill their relatives just to inherit more quickly. 
There isn’t a shred of evidence against Swift, he’s 
a decent citizen, and it’s only because you don’t like 
his personality that you are down on him.” 

“Maybe. But his personality is far from attrac¬ 
tive.” 

“To you, perhaps. Not to everybody. But now 
we have the Conrad death to look into as well. 
The doctors pronounce it murder, and by the same 
means as were employed to do for Howland. You 
don’t suspect Swift of this thing too, do you?” 

“Oh, Penny, don’t be cross with me! I’m only 
trying to look into things. But, on the other hand, 
Magee couldn’t have done it, could he?” 

“Why not? I don’t believe Magee is far away. 


240 Wheels Within Wheels 

That girl could have sent a cablegram to Paris as 
a blind,—and I believe she did. I dare say Magee 
is hanging around near here—” 

“But why would he kill Conrad ?” 

“Here’s why. Whoever killed the half-wit is the 
same one who killed Howland, And the reason is 
because Conrad saw Howland’s murder done and 
threatened to tell.” 

“But that idiot boy couldn’t tell—” 

“That’s just it. He has decidedly lucid intervals, 
and I’ve talked to him myself when he seemed just 
on the verge of giving out most important informa¬ 
tion and then his mind would wander off again. But 
the more he was questioned the more he seemed to 
remember. And I was just about to interview him 
regarding that baby affair! You see, if Magee made 
up the whole plot of palming the girl off as the 
daughter then he would have to make everything 
bend to the furtherance of his scheme. Now, hav¬ 
ing Howland out of the way, he feared only Con¬ 
rad,—so he had to go too.” 

“Don’t believe it,” and Zizi looked stubbornly 
dubious. “I’m sure there’s something we’ve over¬ 
looked,—something important—” 

And then Edith Mills arrived. 

“May I come in?” she said, as Zizi opened the 
door to her knock. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Wise, rising to greet her. 

“I do want a talk with you two alone,” she said, 
as she loosened her furs. “I feel I ought to tell you 
some things.” 


The Chemist’s Statement 241 

“If you can tell anything to throw light on our 
problems, it is surely your duty to do so, Miss 
Mills,” Wise told her. 

“I know it, and while I’ve nothing much or defi¬ 
nite to tell, it may be of help. It’s about the sin¬ 
cerity of Ida Campbell. Do you think, Mr. Wise, 
that she believes she is Angela Howland ?” 

“No,” said Wise, and “Yes,” said Zizi, simul¬ 
taneously. 

Edith Mills looked from one to the other. 

“You two don't always agree, then?” 

“We rarely agree,” said Zizi, making a saucy 
face at Wise. 

“What do you think on that point, Miss Mills?” 
the detective asked. “You have opportunities of 
judging,—as you are in the house.” 

“I think she is determined to put the thing over. 
Why, every morning you can see new determination 
in her face, as if she said to herself, I will succeed 
in this thing,—I will! And then, as the day goes 
on, and she meets with rebuff or difficulty, her cour¬ 
age fails, and she droops with discouragement, only 
to start fresh the next day.” 

“You’re a bit of a psychologist, Miss Mills.” 

“Yes,—in a small way. But these phases of Ida’s 
are obvious enough. Now,—if you please, she has 
so successfully vamped Leonard Swift that he is in 
love with her,—or thinks he is. She spurns him, 
but that only piques his interest. She knows that, 
and she holds him off,—even while she is drawing 
him on.” 


242 Wheels Within Wheels 


“You seem to understand the vamping process,—” 
Wise smiled at her. 

“What girl doesn’t, nowadays,” and the big gray 
eyes gazed miserably at Wise. Clearly, Edith Mills 
was distressed at the situation. 

“I might as well own up, Mr. Wise,—I care for 
Leonard Swift myself. I am sure he cared for me, 
—before that girl came along, with her painted 
cheeks and her cigarettes! Len fell for all that sort 
of thing, because he thinks it’s smart and clever 
work. So then Ida made up to him and actually 
ensnared him—” 

“How do you know ?” asked Zizi; “just from her 
telling you ?” 

“Oh, no, my child, I wouldn’t trust to that. But 
I heard him. You know there’s little that goes on 
in that house that I don’t hear. I can’t help it, 
I hear through walls or closed doors, without try¬ 
ing. Well, I heard Leonard begging her to marry 
him, and she treated him like the dirt under her 
feet. That’s what makes me mad!” 

“You wouldn’t rather she accepted him?” said the 
astute Zizi. 

“No, but she will do that in the end. Why 
wouldn’t she? She’ll never prove her identity,— 
because—” 

“Because what?” asked Wise. 

“Because she isn’t Angela,—she’s Ida Holmes.” 

“How do you know, and who is Ida Holmes?” 

“I don’t know who Ida Holmes is—but I know 
she’s a real person. I often hear Nurse Lane mut- 


The Chemist’s Statement 243 

tering at night. My room is opposite hers, across 
a narrow hall, and she mutters and murmurs con¬ 
stantly. And I thought I wouldn’t tell of it, but 
since that girl has—” 

“Has annexed Swift,” Zizi helped her out. 

“Yes; I’m ready to tell anything I know against 
her.” 

“If it’s true,” suggested Wise. 

“It is true. And it’s this. Night after night 
Nurse Lane goes over these words. Ida Holmes,— 
Ida Holm. Sometimes she says Holm and some¬ 
times Holmes. Then she says, 'She is—she must 
be—Ida Holmes. But I won’t have it! No, I’ll 
never admit it.’ Over and over she says that, with 
a slight variation, such as, ‘I’ll never tell,’ ‘I won’t 
let anybody know,’ and that sort of thing over and 
over.” 

“I’ve always thought that nurse knew something 
of importance—” 

“Oh, she does! Whatever it is, whoever Ida 
Holmes may be, she can’t be Angela Howland.” 

“Are there any Holmses about here?” Wise asked. 
“Could there have been a Holmes baby who was ill 
at the time of the epidemic?” 

“You see,” Zizi explained, earnestly, “there’s no 
doubt but Conrad carried a child from the shop to 
the railroad station by the streets he mentioned. 
Main Street, Lee Avenue, Carter Street. That was 
firmly fixed in his brain.” 

“But it wasn’t Angela Howland, it was Ida 
Holmes—” 


244 Wheels Within Wheels 

“But who is Ida Holmes ?” Wise repeated. 

“There are Holmeses about here,” Edith said, 
“and I’ve looked into the matter, but I can’t learn 
of any Ida. I haven’t liked to seem too curious, 
but I want you, Mr. Wise, to make inquiries. First 
of all, I think you ought to make Nurse Lane tell 
what she knows,—it would spike the guns of that 
girl, anyway!” 

“You think her an impostor, then?” 

“Of course she is! Magee made the plan, she fell 
in with it, and now,—” 

“Did Mr. Magee kill Mr. Howland?” Wise asked. 

Edith Mills paused. 

“I’d hate to say that,” she said, “and yet I can’t 
help thinking he did. You see, he started the whole 
business of the baby’s body being removed from the 
casket. Nobody ever verified that. Maybe he made 
it all up.” 

“But that was before Mr. Howland died.” 

“Yes,—but Austin Magee is deep and very clever. 
Moreover, he insisted on being executor of Mr. 
Howland’s estate. I know, because I was there,— 
I typed the will. Oh, I can’t help knowing all the 
Howland affairs. A stenographer has to. And 
then, when Mr. Magee raised the question of Angela 
being still alive, naturally Mr. Howland was cr^zy 
to have it come true. He wouldn’t let Mrs. How¬ 
land know until there was a positive assurance.” 

“Was she all right mentally, then?” 

“Yes. Melancholy, but perfectly sound-minded. 
It was the shock of Mr. Howland’s death that made 


The Chemist’s Statement 245 

her what she is now. But she’s getting better all 
the time. That girl has a splendid effect on her. 
So, Mr. Wise, don’t you see how fine it would be 
if you could just prove that Ida is Ida Holmes, 
and has nothing to do with the Howlands, then 
Mrs. Howland could take her share of the estate, 
could take Ida as companion, and go away—” 

“Leaving you with a clear field in regard to Mr. 
Swift,” put in Zizi. 

“Yes,” and Miss Mills’ calm gray eyes looked at 
Zizi acquiescently. “This is no wrongdoing on my 
part,—I simply want the truth. And I want 
Leonard Swift, who was already mine when this 
vamp appeared on the scene!” 

“Here comes your friend now,” and from the 
window Pennington Wise saw Swift approaching. 

“Hello,” Swift said, as he came in, “you here, 
Edith? Good day, Miss Zizi. Wise, I’ve fresh 
information. I’ve been doing a little sleuthing my¬ 
self, and I’ve found a German chemist who makes 
those poison gas things.” 

“Where?” and Wise showed his interest. 

“He has a queer little laboratory in a sort of 
shanty up on the Marslake road. I’ve not been 
there, but I heard rumors of it, and I inquired at the 
post-office as to his address. Then I waited around, 
and he came for his mail, and I tackled him. Good 
work, what ? Well,—the result was—er,—informa¬ 
tive, at least.” 

“And it was?” 

“That he made those bulbs for Magee.” 


246 Wheels Within Wheels 


“Good work, indeed, to find that out!” said Wise, 
appreciatively. “How did he come to tell you ?” 

“I frightened him into it. He denied it all at 
first, and when I told him he’d be suspected of mur¬ 
der himself if he didn’t come across with the facts, 
he admitted that Magee asked him to make them 
and he did.” 

“What did Magee tell him he wanted them for?” 

“Oh, the usual -excuse, to kill a dog. Said it was 
a great bulldog and they wanted to put it out of the 
way painlessly. So Helmstadter, that’s his name, 
gave him several. He is a morose, surly old cus¬ 
tomer, and I don’t believe he gave the matter a 
thought in any curious way. It’s all in the day’s 
work with him.” 

“Give me his exact address, and I’ll go to see 
him,” said Wise, as he jotted down the directions 
Swift gave him. 

“You see,” Swift went on, “I hate like the devil to 
accuse Magee, but what else can we think ?” 

“And as to the Conrad murder?” Wise said. 

“Magee’s work,” Swift returned. “Sorry, but 
what other theory is possible ? Austin is about here 
somewhere, hiding, but in communication with Miss 
Campbell,—of that there can be no doubt.” 

“Then the bulbs that were found in Magee’s rQom 
were his own,—and not planted there?” 

“Say it yourself. Who could have put them 
there? I can’t see any way out for Austin Magee. 
The thing is to find him.” 

“If he’s in Paris—” 


The Chemist’s Statement 247 

“Not he! That cablegram was a clever trick. 
HI bet anything you like it never was delivered. 
Well, there’s my contribution to your investigation. 
Do what you like with it. But if you’re hunting 
the murderer of Ralph Howland and of Conrad 
Stryker, one name will answer both questions.” 

“And Miss Ida Campbell? Is she too a fraud?” 

“Rather!” Swift spoke emphatically. “And 
she’s weakening. She’ll give up the struggle any 
time now. She hasn’t a friend to back her, except 
Mary Howland, who is not to be considered. And 
the game is too absurd. I think Magee had a notion 
of Conrad’s finding one of the babies alive, and he 
made up the whole Jane Campbell yarn right out of 
the solid. Then he taught it to this girl—” 

“How did he find her?” 

“Through that dentist business. That part is all 
true. ... You know dentists keep very accurate 
records nowadays, and those dental journals are 
read widely. . . . It’s a wonder he didn’t have a 
hundred answers. But he probably had a lot, and he 
selected the most promising and instructed her care¬ 
fully as to her procedure and then sent her here.” 

“After Howland’s death.” 

“Of course, after Howland’s death. He never 
could have fooled Ralph Howland! Nor could he 
have fooled Mary, except that her mind is not ca¬ 
pable of judging truly. Now, you prove the girl 
is not Angela, and then prove that Magee is re¬ 
sponsible for these two crimes,—and your work is 
done.” 


248 Wheels Within Wheels 


“What sort of a man is Magee?” Wise inquired. 

“Have you never §een him ? Well, he’s one of the 
quiet sort. Minds his own business, keeps his own 
counsel—” 

“Very ambitious,” Edith Mills put in. “Over- 
ambitious. His one idea in life is his own advance¬ 
ment, his own importance.” 

“I see. Well, you two people have certainly given 
me something new to work on. I’ll see your German 
chemist, Mr. Swift, and perhaps learn more details.” 

“All right,—come along, Edith,” and the two 
departed. 

“The plot thickens,” said Wise to his assistant, 
“and as it thickens, curiously enough, it also clears! 
The end is not yet,—to be sure, but the end is in 
sight.” 

“Do you suppose those two are telling the truth?” 
and Zizi hugged her knees, as she rocked back and 
forth on her ottoman. She rarely sat on a chair,— 
she was too little for most chairs, but she always 
found some little hassock or stool,—if not, she 
would fling a cushion on the floor and sit on that. 

“Truth is a big word, Ziz. Few people can tell 
it.” 

“Now you’re getting epigrammatic, so I know 
you’re in a good humor, so I know things are work¬ 
ing out!” 

“You’re right, my child, things are working out! 
By the way, that’s important stuff Miss Mills di¬ 
vulged,—about the babbling old nurse, I mean.” 


The Chemist’s Statement 249 

“Y-yes,—but, Penny, there isn't any Ida 
Holmes.” 

“No? Who told you so?” 

“Your mamma told my mamma and my mamma 
told me!” with which not very lucid statement she 
lapsed into a thoughtful silence. 

At length, she broke it to say, 

“Penny, you find out about the German chemist, 
and I’ll track down Ida Holmes. How’s that for 
equal division of labor?” 

“It goes,” Wise returned, “and I’ll start now.” 

“I will, too,” and these two earnest investigators 
took their separate ways. 

Wise procured an automobile and had himself 
driven out to the address Swift had given him. 

He found a decent enough old house, with a shack 
or shanty that was evidently the laboratory. It 
seemed too dignified a name for the little building, 
but on entering, Wise found that inside it was a 
marvel of compactness, with tools and appliances in 
perfect working order. 

“Mr. Helmstadter ?” inquired the detective, as he 
approached an old man who sat on a high stool at a 
work table. 

“Ja,—vat iss?” 

“May I have a short interview with you, sir ? My 
name is Wise.” 

“Weiss, eh,—a goot name.” 

“I am a detective, and I make my inquiries in the 
interests of law and justice.” 


250 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Law unt justice,—they are goot things.” 

The old man’s attitude was not surly, so much as 
disinterested. He was civil enough, but he was quite 
evidently impatient to return to his work. 

“I won’t detain you long,” Wise assured him. 
“Tell me this. You can make poison gas bulbs?” 

The old man looked at him shrewdly from under 
his bushy gray eyebrows. 

“Ta. That is not a great stunt!” 

“No?” 

“Not for a chemist who knows his business. One 
heats some dry cyanide of mercury to a low redness 
in a glass tube. The gas is collected over the mer¬ 
cury, which volatilizes and condenses on the colder 
part of the apparatus.” 

“And it is deadly?” 

“A bulb, which haf in it two cubic centimeters, 
could send you to the next world.” 

“I dare say. I’m in no haste to go, though. Now 
for the business. You make these things to order?” 

“That iss to put it queerly. But, yes, I did make 
some to order a time ago.” 

“For whom ?” 

“For Mr. Magee,—he iss the secretary of Mr. 
Howland.” 

“Yes. And why did he want them ?” , 

“He said to kill a fery large dog.” 

“You believed him ?” 

“It vas not my beesness. He said so,—ja, I be¬ 
lieved him, why not?” 


The Chemist’s Statement 251 


‘‘Yet one of those,—perhaps two of them,—were 
used to murder human beings!” 

The German shrugged his shoulders. 

“That is not my affair. I did not kill anybody.” 

“No. Was Mr. Magee secretive about this? Did 
he ask you not to tell ?” 

The old man looked surprised. “No, he said not- 
tings of the sort. He asked for the goods, I de¬ 
livered them, he paid me. All is said.” 

“You’re sure the customer was Austin Magee?” 

“He said so.” 

“Describe the man ?” 

And the description of the chemist’s customer was 
so accurate that there could be no doubt it was meant 
for Austin Magee. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
On Record 

O NE was less than nineteen and one was over 
ninety, but the two were hobnobbing like 
cronies, and the snapping black eyes of the 
girl were no more piercing than the beady black eyes 
of the old woman. 

“Tell me the whole story,” Zizi commanded. 
“Conrad is dead, you can do him no harm, and 
you can do other people a world of good. Come 
now, out with it!” 

Granny Green, for all her ninety years, for all 
her blindness and deafness was nobody’s fool. She 
peered at her visitor from her almost sightless old 
eyes, she drew close and held up her ear trumpet 
persistently in endeavor to catch her words, and she 
finally caught the girl by the arm and almost 
screamed into her ear. “Yes, I’ll tell you,—I’ll tell 
you,—you’re good,—yes, you’re good!” 

Zizi was fastidious and hated the proximity of 
the far from attractive old dame, but there was much 
at stake, and she must use all her tact to win it.- 
“Tell me all that Conrad, your grandson, told 
you about that baby,” Zizi shouted into the detestable 
old ear trumpet. 

“Hey?” said Granny Green, and Zizi shouted it 
over again. 


252 


On Record 253 

“Yes,—yes. It was the awful sleeping sickness. 
All the children had it,—lots of them died,—poor 
little things. And Connie, our poor innocent, was 
in the shop all night, as he always was, and there 
were many little caskets there. Oh,—how awful 
for the poor boy—” 

Granny Green’s emotion got the better of her, 
and she gave way to rocking back and forth in 
paroxysms of grief. 

“Yes, yes,—too bad,” and Zizi patted her shoul¬ 
der. “Now go on,—what happened?” 

“Why, Connie, he heard a little noise, like a faint 
moan from one of the caskets. You know, the poor 
boy, he always wants to let out anything or any¬ 
body who is caught or imprisoned. So, he opened 
the casket and sure enough the baby was moving 
and crying out. Now, you know our Conrad wasn’t 
quite right,—and so he didn’t think it was strange, 
—he only thought to free the little girl. And so 
he took her out and tried to make her wake up en¬ 
tirely. But she was just drowsy, and then, the poor 
boy, not having right thought, you know, and hav¬ 
ing it in his head that that particular casket was to 
be sent away on the train, he took the baby down to 
the railroad station and put her on the train. That’s 
all I know about it. He told me the next day and 
then he forgot all about it, I guess, for he never 
mentioned it again.” 

“And didn’t you?” Zizi looked at her in horror. 

“No; for I didn’t think he was telling the truth. 
You see, we never could tell whether Connie was 


254 Wheels Within Wheels 

telling truth or not. So I thought I’d wait and see 
if there was any hue and cry after the child. I 
never heard a word of her from that day to this. 
So I thought Connie made it all up. But now that 
you tell me your story, I think maybe that was the 
Howland baby.” 

Zizi looked at the old woman in admiration. So 
weak and frail,—she seemed incapable of the energy 
she showed in her speech. So deaf, so nearly blind, 
—she was clear-headed, and fluent of speech. Also 
her memory seemed unimpaired, and her words bore 
the ring of truth. 

“I think it was,” Zizi said, “but we’ve got to prove 
it. It could have been some other child, you know.” 

“Could have been,” Granny said, after this speech 
had been made to penetrate her understanding; “and 
I don’t know of any proof. Connie said she wore a 
coral necklace,—but all the babies did then. I hear 
they’re out of style now. I’m a great one for style, 
myself.” 

And she smoothed down the folds of her old black 
gown with the air of a lady of fashion. 

Zizi stifled her amusement and tried to get more 
details of the rescued child. 

But Granny Green could tell no more. She was 
positive that Conrad had told her no more. He had 
found the child was alive, he had liberated her from 
the casket, he had carried her to the station and put 
her on a train, and that was all she knew about it,— 
and even that might have been pure invention on the 
part of the half-wit. 


On Record 


255 


Yet it was a great deal. Conrad had lately said 
that he carried the baby Angela down Main Street, 
Lee Avenue and Carter Street, which was the direct 
road to the station from Stryker’s shop. 

The train was a puzzle. A through train, with 
sleepers on it, would not stop at a tiny village like 
Normandale in the middle of the night, and it must 
have been at least near midnight, or Conrad would 
have been seen. 

Then Conrad, his clouded brain working imper¬ 
fectly, but according to routine, must have reclosed 
the casket, and the next day it was duly shipped to 
New Jersey. 

Ordinarily the unusual lightness of the casket 
would have been noticed, but it was easy to believe 
that in the commotion and haste of the undertaker’s 
rush of business, such a question could be easily 
overlooked. 

At any rate, there was food for reflection, and 
pretty fair proof of what had happened to the How¬ 
land baby. 

Yet, Pennington Wise observed, when Zizi told 
him this story, it did not in any way prove that Ida 
Holmes Campbell was that child. 

“You see, Ziz,” he said, “this is a slightly dif¬ 
ferent problem from any I’ve ever tackled. The 
identity of that girl has to be proved before the law 
will let her take her place as Angela Howland. All 
this baby story may be, probably is, perfectly true, 
yet we haven’t connected it up with Ida Campbell. 
Nor can I see any way to do so.” 


256 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Her teeth—” 

“Helpful evidence, but by no means proof. 
Magee picked the first applicant he could find, who 
was hazy as to her vital statistics. Had he gone 
further he might have found several equally good 
prospects.” 

“Oh, Lordy! and I thought I had the thing all to 
rights! By the way, Penny, is Magee the mur¬ 
derer ?” 

“I never thought so, until I struck that German 
chemist.” 

“You believe him?” 

“I can’t see any reason for him to make up that 
yarn. It’s plausible on the face of it. Magee is a 
man of nerve, and if he wanted to kill Howland 
that’s just the way he would do it,—go calmly and 
order those death-dealing bulbs, saying he wanted 
to kill a dog.” 

“You seem to know Magee pretty well,—have 
you ever met him ?” 

To which question Pennington Wise merely re¬ 
sponded, “You ask your mamma and your mamma 
can ask me.” 

Which utterly foolish phrase, being interpreted, 
meant, “I refuse to answer.” 

At Howlands, Ida Holmes Campbell was pre¬ 
paring to go away. 

The opposition was too great, and the girl was 
breaking down under her weight of unhappiness. 

She had no friend with whom to consult. Mary 
Howland could be of no help. Nurse Lane was 


257 


On Record 

more bitter and insulting than ever. Edith Mills 
was kind and hateful by turns, being influenced by 
Swift’s attitude toward Ida. 

For Swift, too, varied in his treatment of the 
impostor, as she was now generally called. 

Sometimes he would be humble, pleading and 
gentle, then, when Ida failed to respond, he would 
turn ugly, threatening and cruel. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, at last, sav¬ 
agely; “I offer you everything that heart can wish,— 
a beautiful home, luxury, happiness, and the kind¬ 
est husband in the world,—but if you still refuse,— 
you’ll have to go! I don’t want you here any longer. 
So,—oh, Ida, darling,—do—do come to me—” He 
held out his arms in an appeal that left no doubt 
of its sincerity. 

Ida was touched by the man’s earnestness. 

“I’m sorry—” she said gently. “I’m truly sorry, 
Mr. Swift, but I don’t—I can’t love you.” 

“Why not? I’m as good as the next man. Are 
you still hankering after Magee,—a murderer?” 

“Stop! You shan’t say that when you don’t 
know it!” 

“Don’t know it! Oh, but I do, and so does Wise, 
and the police and everybody. It won’t be very 
healthy for Magee should he ever return here, which 
of course he won’t. Now, my lady, do you plan 
to go—or stay?” 

The last word was pleading, yet the man stood 
aloof, arms folded, awaiting her decision. 

“I am going,” she said, her little head held high. 


258 Wheels Within Wheels 

“I am going,—because I cannot prove my right 
here—” 

“Because you know you have no right here, ,, he 
jeered. “Because the plot of ou and your partner 
in crime has fallen through, and he has deserted you, 
and left you to fight alone, and you are—van¬ 
quished! But”—and his taunting tone changed to 
endearing accents—“my little love, my darling, my 
beauty, stay with me,—oh, Ida, you must!” 

He stepped impulsively toward her, but she 
warded him off with a gesture. 

“Don’t come near me! I never want to see you 
again!” 

“Then I shall take one more kiss whether you 
allow it or not,” and he sprang toward her, but was 
interrupted by Edith Mills, who came into the library 
from the next room. 

“No, you won’t, Len. Let her alone. Behave 
yourself, I’m ashamed of you!” 

The calm tone was like that of a mother to a 
naughty child, and Swift looked ashamed as Edith 
frowned at him. 

“Ida,” she said, ignoring Swift, “if you really 
have no use for that man, if you are not vamping 
him, as I thought you were, then—then, I’m on your 
side, and maybe I can help you.” 

“Help me, oh, Edith, I wish you could. I’m so 
alone and friendless. I want to go away,—will you 
help me do that,—and arrange about mother—Mrs. 
Howland?” 

“Yes,—come with me, and we’ll have a talk.” 


On Record 259 

But the two girls got no further than the hall, 
for just entering the front door they saw Wise, and 
another man with him. 

And the other man vas Austin Magee. 

^ He stepped quickly ,o Ida and grasped her hand. 
“How are you, dear?” he whispered. 

“Oh, oh,” she gasped, “is it you? Why are you 
here? Don't you know—” 

“Don’t worry, it’s all right. Go back in the 
library, you two, we’re going to hold a little session 
of those interested.” 

“What’s the matter?” said Swift, as the two 
girls reentered the room. “Oh, my God! Magee!” 

But it was only for an instant that Swift lost his 
poise, in another moment he was greeting Magee like 
a long-lost friend. 

Wise entered, followed by Zizi and also Nurse 
Lane, who had been summoned to attend. 

The detective closed the door, and as Leonard 
Swift began to speak, he said: “If you please, Mr. 
Swift, we will listen to Mr. Magee’s story before we 
take any further steps.” 

“By all means,” said Swift, with a sneer, “and I 
dare say it will be some story!” 

“It is,” agreed Magee, quietly, “and here it is. I 
left here that night because I had no wish to sign 
that paper Swift had prepared. It was true in the 
letter, but it was not really true in spirit. I will 
explain. The only real proof of Miss Campbell’s 
identity with Angela Howland was a record made 
by her guardian, Miss Jane Campbell, many years 


260 Wheels Within Wheels 

ago. On her death-bed, at Saint Germain in France, 
Miss Jane told Ida of this record, and that it was 
among her belongings. 

“But though Miss Ida Campbell examined all the 
papers, she couldn’t find it. I decided to go in search 
of it myself. And I had to rush to catch the train 
to New York, and so on to Paris. But neither could 
I find it. And as a matter of fact, Miss Campbell 
found it herself after all,—for while I was over 
there conducting my unsuccessful search, Miss 
Campbell had a sudden inspiration that it might be 
a phonograph record! And it was! Miss Jane was 
fond of making phonograph records as an amuse¬ 
ment, sixteen years ago, and she had confided to a 
record the whole story of her finding the baby on 
the train. I have the record safely, but I will tell 
you the purport of its story. It is to the effect that 
Miss Jane Campbell was on a through train from 
Boston to New York. While she was in the Pull¬ 
man dressing-room the train stopped at a village 
called Normandale. Though a through train, it 
stopped to let off an eminent physician from Boston, 
who had been summoned by reason of the epidemic 
among the children of the vicinity.” 

“You have the date?” asked Wise. 

“Yes, and it is the day after the recorded date of 
Angela Howland’s death. To go on with the story 
told by the record. When Miss Jane returned from 
the dressing room to her own berth, she found there 
a little girl, sleepy but apparently well. Bewildered, 
but not knowing what else to do, she put the child 


On Record 


261 

to sleep in her berth, and next morning the baby was 
bright and happy. But, though apparently four or 
five years old she could not or would not tell her 
name or that of her parents. When asked ques¬ 
tions she would only say Ida Holm or Ida Holmes, 
which Miss Jane concluded must be her name. But 
all search,—and her efforts are detailed in her re¬ 
cital, failed, and so she thankfully accepted the child 
as a gift of God and brought up the baby to the 
best of her ability, calling her Ida Holmes Camp- 
bell. ,, 

There was a low moan from Nurse Lane. She 
was sitting next to Ida and she leaned over and put 
her arm round the surprised girl. 

‘‘This is Angela/’ she said, in a solemn tone. “I 
can keep the truth back no longer. This girl is 
Angela Howland and I know it.” 

“Hooray!” shouted Magee, his almost boyish en¬ 
thusiasm breaking out in a cry of triumph. “Good 
for nurse! I was sure she could tell!” 

“Tell us, Lane,” Wise said, quickly, lest the 
woman regret her disclosures before they were 
made. 

“This is how I know/’ and the strange woman 
spoke quietly, and with hungry eyes devoured Ida’s 
face. It seemed as if the floodgates of love had 
been opened at last, as if her barriers of foolish 
jealousy and doubt had given way, and she took her 
one time nurseling back to her heart. 

“As a baby, Angela often used plurals incorrectly. 
She would say, ‘Let’s go for a walks,’ not for a 


262 Wheels Within Wheels 

walk. And, whenever she was in a place where she 
didn’t wish to be, she said over and over, ‘I do 
homes!’ I’ve heard her say it a thousand times. 
When calling, if she didn’t like the people, she would 
only say, ‘I do homes!’ to all their coaxing or pet¬ 
ting. They might offer her cake or candy, she 
would take none, and just stubbornly repeat, T do 
homes!’ She couldn’t say go ,—and said do for it. 
When I heard this, I felt at once it must be our 
Andy. Yet, it might not have been—other children 
might have said that. But now, you have the whole 
story pieced out, I must tell the truth. Oh, my baby, 
—my lost little Angela.” 

Nurse Lane, her hard old face transfigured with 
love, bent over the wondering girl, who nestled in 
her arms as if really a child again. 

“Yes,” Wise said, briskly, to hide his own sud¬ 
den emotion, “the whole story is pieced out, as far 
as Angela Howland is concerned. Miss Howland, 
I congratulate you. The record Mr. Magee brought, 
and some corroborating letters and papers, with 
Nurse Lane’s statements, will prove your identity 
beyond all question, and you may take your rightful 
position here as soon as you like.” 

“I rather think I’ve something to say about that!” 
began Leonard Swift. “Also, there’s a question or 
two to be asked of Austin Magee on some other 
subjects. What about the German chemist?” 

“Yes, what about him?” Magee turned on him 
fiercely. “What about him, Leonard Swift?” 

“Wait, wait,” Wise interrupted. “The question 


On Record 263 

is about the death of Mr. Howland, and of poor 
Conrad. Now, I should like to put forth a bit of 
evidence which may lead to—confession.” 

From his pocket the detective took a small parcel 
and unwrapped it to show a glove,—a man’s kid 
glove. 

“Ha, a clew!” said Swift, derisively. “A crimi¬ 
nal usually drops a handkerchief or half a cuff-link. 
This time it’s a glove, eh ?” 

“Yes,” said Wise, gravely, “this time it’s a glove. 
But the criminal didn’t leave it behind him.” 

“How then do you connect it with the case?” 
Swift asked, interestedly. 

“The connection is clear enough,” Wise returned; 
“the stupidity was mine for not finding it 
sooner.” 

“No, Penny, you’re never stupid,” Zizi said, un¬ 
willing to let her idol disparage himself. 

“I knew from the bits of glass,” Wise continued, 
“that the murderer had crushed the thin tiny tube 
under the nose of his victim. I tried to learn if any 
one had shown a cut finger or thumb later, but could 
trace nothing of the sort. Yet the breaking glass 
must have pierced the skin. 

“And then it occurred to me that of course such 
a clever villain would wear gloves. Not, perhaps 
to save his thumb from a cut, but for the prevention 
of incriminating finger marks. So, I had the maid 
get me the gloves of certain members.of the house¬ 
hold, and on this one,” he held it up, “you may see 
tiny scratches on the thumb and forefinger; merely 


\ 


264 Wheels Within Wheels 

slight abrasions of the kid, but indicative, when we 
remember the broken glass.” 

In turn, Magee and Swift scrutinized the cuts on 
the glove, and it was obvious that they must have 
been made by some such means as the detective had 
suggested. 

Edith Mills’ eyes were wide with horror. 

“That’s Leonard Swift’s glove,” she cried, as if 
forced to speak by some power outside herself. “He 
killed Mr. Howland,—I see it all now! I heard 
him come downstairs that night, after every one else 
was in bed, and I heard him come up again.” 

“And you came down yourself later,” Wise said, 
“and you saw Mr. Howland dead.” 

“Yes, I did. I came for that red book,—and when 
I saw—what I did see,—I mean Mr. Howland, I 
also saw Conrad,—outside the window,—and I ran 
back upstairs as fast as I could. I thought Conrad 
killed him.” 

“No, but Conrad saw the deed, and that’s why 
Conrad, too, had to be put out of the way.” 

“Going to confess, Swift?” asked Magee, quietly. 

“Confess yourself!” Swift turned on him a look 
of fury. “Helmstadter says you bought the bulbs 
of him—” 

“And you paid Helmstadter well to tell that lje,” 
Wise stated. “That old German knave would do 
anything for money to pursue his laboratory work, 
and the price you paid will help him a lot! The 
game is up, Mr. Swift, have you anything to say, 
—the police are outside waiting.” 


On Record 265 

“Yes, I have this to say; I did kill Ralph How¬ 
land, because this place meant more to me than it 
ever could to him; the fortune meant more to me 
than to such a dull, gloomy old duffer. If that girl 
had kept out of it, all would have been well. I had 
a right to this place.” His eyes were wild now, they 
gleamed with a maniacal light, and he glared from 
one to another as he spoke. “I was clever, diaboli¬ 
cally clever, and I could have pulled it all off if 
Wise hadn’t come here. Who called you in?” he 
demanded, glowering at the detective. 

“I did,” answered Magee. “Before I left for 
Paris, I went to Mr. Wise and told him about the 
case and asked his help.” 

“So you did it, did you,” snarled Swift, looking 
vengeance at Magee. “Well, here’s where you get 
your comeuppance,—all of you!” 

And raising his hand above his head he snapped 
in their faces one of his deadly little tubes of poison 
gas. 

Anticipating this, Wise grabbed Zizi and pulled 
her to the nearest window, which he flung open. 
Magee, as quickly, pulled Edith Mills to the open air, 
and as Nurse Lane and Ida were near the door to 
the next room, the quick-witted woman clapped her 
handkerchief to the girl’s nose, held her own breath 
and in an instant they were through the door and 
Lane slammed it shut. 

So the instrument of death killed only the mur¬ 
derer himself, and, though he thus cheated the gal- 
lo\ s, no one was regretful for that 


266 Wheels Within Wheels 

“Saved us all a lot of trouble/’ said Wise, re¬ 
turning later to find Swift’s dead body in the hands 
of the police. 

“Come away, Penny,” and Zizi pulled at his 
sleeve. “We haven’t anything more to do with that 
awful creature.” 

Nor had Magee, and so he went in search of a 
brighter moment. 

“Where is she?” he asked, seeing Lane in the hall. 

“In the sun parlor, sir,” nurse replied, smiling at 
him. 

Magee strode through the room only to see 
Angela going out at the door. 

He followed quickly, his arm going round her as 
he caught up with her. 

They walked on toward the orchard and he said, 
“Forget all the dark spots and remember only our 
joy.” 

“I am Angela,” she said, turning to face him, and 
smiling through her tears, “Mother’s Angela!” 

“You are, my blessing, and you are somebody 
else’s Angela! Whose?” 

“You made me Angela,” she said, smiling into 
his eyes, as they paused in the Fairy Ring of the 
orchard trees, “so I must be yours!” 

“You must, indeed. Oh, sweetheart, how I have 
missed you! What is your spell, you fairy child? 
I couldn’t forget you for the least, littlest moment!” 

“Nor I you, my fairy prince. And here in the 
Fairy Ring, that I really and truly remember from 
my baby days, here—” 


On Record 267 

“Here in the Fairy Ring we plight our troth,” 
said Magee, taking her in his arms, 

“Where are you, Angela dear,” and Mary How¬ 
land’s soft voice broke in on their happiness. 

“Here, mother, come quickly,—I want you to 
meet my fairy prince!” 

“Why, Austin, when did you come back?” and 
as Mary Howland gave him her hand, it seemed to 
Magee that she had regained all her poise and natu¬ 
ralness. 

And what small part still remained lacking was 
restored by the quiet and happy days that came 
to her in the near future. 

“I am Angela, mother dear,” the girl said, kissing 
her rapturously. “I am Angela!” 

“Why, I always knew it, my baby,—that’s no 
news to your mother.” 

“No,—but it’s been proved,—and I am your 
Angela.” 

“And mine,” said Magee. 

“Yes,” Angela said, nestling into the hollow of 
his arm, “yes, beloved, and yours.” 


THE END 


























